Stuttering Toward Ecstasy
by Potions for Foxes
Summary: Edward Elric is a fairly normal high school student who happens to be utterly and completely terrified of public speaking. However, unlike most high schoolers, his fear isn't irrational. You see, Edward Elric stutters. Especially when people watch him. (last update guys)
1. Chapter 1

Well, this is the first time in forever that I've written in first person. But don't worry, I think I've worked most of the kinks out in this chapter. Beginnings aren't exactly my strong point, I've been accused of "catapulting the reader into the story", and I have a love of starting stories off with sentences ending in either ?s or !s.

The Summary (in all its comma filled glory):

Edward Elric is a fairly normal high school student who is terrified of public speaking. Aside from the fact that his fear is completely rational. You see, Edward Elric stutters. Especially when people watch him.

The Summary In Which Foxes Was Not Under A Word Budget:

Edward Elric currently hates high school. He should've been in a Speech Class. But due to the fact that Izumi Curtis's room had suffered massive water damage, Ed was place in Humanities, an English class centered around public speaking. A month into school, the school district scrapped the plans for the renovation of Izumi's room and instead moved Speech Class to the Art wing. Now all Ed has to do is give one last speech and he's free. Easy? Wrong. Ed has a severe stutter and Grand seems to be doing everything in his power to make it worse.

Pairings:

Will be listed in chapter two.

Warnings: First Person, Swearing, and questioning of Al's masculinity

Okay, so moving on to the vocabulary used in the chapter:

Blocking or a block: when a stutterer can't get past a word.

Disclaimer: I don't own FullMetal Alchemist or AOL Instant Messenger

"Sh-sh-sh-shorty!"

The kids circled around me. All around me. Surrounding me. The reason why I hate the sixth grade.

"M-m-m-midget!"

I don't sound like that, I remember thinking. I can say 'm' words. Just because I don't like milk doesn't mean I can say it.

"Sh-sh-shri_imp!_"

Leave me alone. Let go of me. Stop it.

Only the words don't come out that way.

"Lllllleave me alone."

The 'l' sound wavers like the trill of a violin. Only unlike the violinist, I don't want to make that sound. Simple, sharp, and crisp. Oh, how I wish. Instead it's wavering, timid and hesitant.

"Lllleave me alone!" they repeat back. Their l's bring to mind horse whinnies. I don't sound like that.

"St-st-stss-ss-ss—

I can't say it.

It's stuck.

"Ssssss."

All I can make is a strangled hissing sound.

"Sss-ss-sss."

I can't stop.

The crowd is practically rolling in laughter now. I hate them.

"Ss—ss—ss—

I can't even make a sound now. Only the odd, short 'sa' is escaping now. I probably look like some demented sea animal. Mouth opens closes, but no sound.

One of the boys recovers enough to grab at my hair.

I whirl around and my fist connects with his jaw. The sound is harsh, like the crack of a whip. The boys stare at me, stunned. Some are frightened.

"M-m-my tooth," the boy stammers, raising his hand to his jaw, eyes wide in disbelief. I stare back. I can't believe I hit somebody.

The bell rings and everyone freezes.

I remember getting in trouble for that. The kid's bracket on his braces came loose and his parents were upset. My mom was disappointed and agreed with the counselor: I should have used words. My subsequent sputtering session reminded them why that was not a good option for me.

My dad was proud though. He said he was proud that I finally stood up for myself. For the first time in my life my dad was proud and that was worth worlds.

That was years ago. Five to be exact. I'd like to be able to point to that and say "that was the last time I ever stuttered." Unfortunately that wouldn't be true. Not to mention the fact that I'd trip up on 'time'.

And since both Winry and Al want me to be more positive, I can say my name. My first name only. Edward. Easy enough. No l's, s's, t's or the god-awful combination of both of them and certainly no f's. Of course that brings us to my little used middle name that I'm changing A.S.A.P. Ulysses. Utter and complete nightmare there. Followed by Elric. What's wrong with Elric? Well, as I would like to say, it has one too many 'l' sounds.

Fortunately few people can mispronounce Elric, so I've never had to stutter through my last name in front of a whole class. Still there are other things I can screw up. Like spelling bees. I personally believe that the best thing about high school is that there are no spelling bees. Granted, the charm of that particular fact wears off within the first year. Especially considering Personal Enemy Numero Uno: class presentations.

Public speaking terrifies most juniors. The only exception is Sloth. She seems to get some strange freakish joy out of launching into completely unprepared speeches. She's also _good_ at it. But with her lone exception, everyone is terrified of presentations. And these are the people who can speak.

I dread them.

I start stuttering the night before.

My dreams feature myself trying to present, mouth moving but no words coming out and everyone laughing at me.

The dreams normally come true.

Humanities is worst.

Its Mr. Grand fault. He hates me. He also lacks sympathy. All my presentation grades have been F's, unless it's a group project. In which case I'm left to do all the real work and my classmates present the project. Unfortunately he seems to have caught on and delights in asking me questions.

My mom does not understand. She seriously suggested explaining my problem to him. Does anyone else see the impossibility here? He hates me! He knows that I stutter. He won't let me submit the report in writing (I emailed him). He won't excuse me from it. He's actually forcing me to present in class tomorrow.

Hence the fact that I've barely been able to talk all day. And because Al insists on positive statements, this is the last presentation I have to make in Humanities. The school has finally found a classroom for Izumi Curtis, speech-language pathologist (as well as self-defense teacher), to use. She hasn't been able to teach because her classroom has been under construction since July. The district hasn't fixed it or anything. They spent two and a half months considering rebuilding before deciding that it cost too much money. So they merely shuffled an entire art class elsewhere.

I suppose that it's not so bad having Speech in the art wing. The classrooms are decorated nicely with past student projects and examples. That and its also adjacent to my next class: Ceramics. In fact I could probably just walk through the storeroom in between the classrooms. Assuming there's no stupid rule that says students can't or something.

Ceramics is one of my favorite classes. Not because I have any artistic talent, but because it doesn't involve talking or presentations. The instructor's nice too. And yes those happened to be my only qualifications for 'favorite class.'

Dinner is going to be a wreck. I know it. First of all, we're having fish sticks. I'm not even going to attempt to say that. It won't end well. Mom will want me to try. She'll probably phrase some stupid sentence that's answer requires saying fish sticks. She's under the rather mistaken impression that if I wasn't afraid of stuttering I wouldn't stutter.

I hate that.

It's not like she's ever had any difficulties speaking.

She'll want me to compliment Al's cooking and because he's so sensitive about his cooking skills, or lack thereof, I'll have to. All of the blasted things he could choose! Of course, this is probably better than anything else. He's not the best chef and I'd rather eat food and stutter than gnaw on various forms of charcoal.

"Ed! Time for dinner!" my mom calls from downstairs. I wince. I don't want to go down. Dad's not home yet. He signed out of AIM ten minutes ago and should be here by now.

I really don't want to deal with Mom today. Not with my stutter and the fish sticks and I know she's going to make me say those words or at least try to. I'll probably get stuck on the 'f' and it really won't get any better from there.

"We're having fish sticks!"

There are those damned words again.

Dinner is going to be horrible. I'm already tense, nervous, and envisioning failure. Exactly what I'm not supposed to do, according to Internet sites and Izumi. I'm supposed to be relaxing and letting myself stutter.

Of course this works, assuming the audience is willing to wait; Dad will, Al will help. Mom will do exactly what every guide to raising stuttering children advises against: relax Ed, slow down Ed, take deep breaths Ed.

What does she know?

"I'm home!"

It's Dad.

I grudgingly walk down the hardwood stairs to the kitchen. Dad's kissing Mom on the cheek and setting his briefcase down.

Al straightens up and brings the fish sticks out of the oven. He looks utterly ridiculous in Mom's old apron. It's frilly and floral, all pastel colors. I can't believe he's wearing it. I feel embarrassed just looking at it. I don't care what Dad says about being secure in my masculinity. I am plenty secure in my masculinity. I braid my hair. Dad wears a ponytail. That's being secure in your masculinity.

Wearing a frilly, floral apron means that what ever sense of security you have in your masculinity is probably false.

"Ed!" Mom says, smiling. She's barely seen me all day. I consider this a very good thing. She'd better not ask how my day was. Al smiles sympathetically. He knows there's something wrong.

"Hi Mom."

Nice sentence. Short, no difficult sounds, no stuttering. Easy.

"The fish sticks are done," Al says, beaming proudly. They're a nice dark orange color. A bit well done, but not smoking. This is an improvement from last time when Al set off all the smoke detectors. I've never understood how the smoke alarm in the basement managed to smell the smoke. Maybe it sensed that its buddies were making noise and it felt left out. Poor lonely smoke detector, all alone in the basement—

"Ed!"

I jump. I really shouldn't daze out like that.

"Yes?" I answered. Mom is looking at me expectantly.

"How was your day?"

Shit.

Horrible. I have to—wait that uses a t. I'm giving a Humanities presentation tomorrow—another t. What if I just say the name of the day. Tomorrow's Wednesday. That should work.

And here it goes:

"I'm giving a Humanities presentation on Wednesday."

"Really?" Shit. Public speaking is my mom's favorite subject. It should be. It's her career. I'll just wait for you all to stop laughing because the stuttering kid's mom is a motivational speaker. It's not that funny.

"Yeah," I say and force a smile.

Al hands me a plate with tater tots (another cruel, cruel word) and fish sticks on it. I take it.

"Do you want to eat at the table or in the TV room?" Dad asks. TV room! Please let's sit in the TV room. I don't stutter as much when the TVs on. Something about my brain thinking it's talking with other people.

"Oh, let's eat in the dining room tonight."

Damn.

"Alright!" Al says brightly. He's never been particularly thrilled about watching TV and talking at the same time.

Mom turns to me.

"What about you, Ed honey?"

I shrug. 'No' would require an explanation. 'Sure' has an s. 'I'd like to eat in the TV room' won't work. It has an abundance of l's and t's. Therefore, I shrug.

"Okay then," Mom smiles and sits at that table. I sit at the table. Next to Dad, across from Mom, Al sits to my side.

"So, Ed what's your Humanities presentation about?" Mom asks as soon as everyone is settled.

"It's about the difference between a war crime and a crime against humanity," I say without stuttering.

"Really?" Mom asks, sounding interested. I shift in my seat. I'd really just like to eat now and maybe mutter a few words before fleeing to my room.

"Yeah."

"What is the difference?"

I give her the most basic definition out there:

"A war crime is committed during a war and a crime against humanity isn't."

"Ah," Mom says. She was probably hoping for something more enlightening.

"What is a crime against humanity, anyway?" Al asked.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

Shit.

"It's basically a horrendous crime committed outside of war: enslavement and murder and disappearances."

"Oh," Al says, a little put out at my lousy definition.

"It also covers st—

Shit!

Okay, remember what Izumi said, I tell myself, Relax and let yourself stutter. But if I stutter badly Mom's going to know there's something else wrong. She's going to know that I'm terrified about the presentation. She's already disappointed about me switching out of the class. Never mind the fact that I _have_ to take Speech.

"St-st-stuff that isn't appropriate for dinner," I finish. It's true. Forced pregnancy, rape, and sexual slavery aren't exactly dinner table topics.

"Okay," Al says, and I know he's going to quiz me later. That or look it up himself. Maybe I'll just give him my paper to proof read tonight. He's always been excellent at the technical aspects of writing.

"These are really good fish sticks, Al," Dad says. Al grins. I force my lips into a smile. Please don't make me say the words. I know I can't say them.

"I know, what about you Ed?" Mom says, smiling at me.

"They're good," I mutter.

Al looks downcast. Dammit! Why can't he understand I'm not trying to hurt him?

"Hmm?"

"The—

I take a deep breath and breathe out. It's supposed to help. I try to ignore the stupid hissing sound it makes.

"Fii—

I said it! I almost said it. I had it! I get excited.

And there it goes.

"Fff-fff-ff-ff-ffi?"

It sounds like someone's letting air out of a bike tire, stopping the hiss of escaping air occasionally. I hate this.

"Take a deep breath, Ed," Mom says, looking at me with her pitying green eyes.

I move my mouth and nothing comes out.

I look like some sort of retarded _fish_.

"Ff—ff—ff-ff-ff-fff—

I can't say it.

"Ffff-ff-ff-_fish_!"

It finally comes out.

"Sss-ss-ss-sssssss—

I'm so stupid.

Why do I keep going with this damned sentence. By now Al's realized why I didn't want to say the word. Mom knows I'm nervous about something. So why don't I just shut up. But it's like some sort of challenge now. Who's going to win this time: Me or my stutter?

"Ssss-ss-ssst-sstt—sttti-icks are." Are comes out in a hoarse whisper. It's not my voice.

"Good," I finish quickly and look down at my plate. I stuff one of the tater tots in my mouth and promptly choke on it. Dad pats me on the back. I swallow it.

"Ed, is there anything _wrong?_" Mom asked, looking extremely concerned.

"No."

Just the fact that my Humanities teacher hates me, I have to stutter—I mean "speak" in front of the class tomorrow, but you already know that and you don't like it.

"You sure?"

"Nothing's wrong," I mutter darkly, stabbing a fish stick.

"So, Trisha, where's your next speaking event?" Dad asks brightly. I know he's going to demand that I tell him everything later online. I don't mind. It's better there.

I let the conversation move around me. I don't really care what Mom's going to talk about this time. Just as long as it has nothing to do with stuttering. She once invited herself to speak at my school. It was so embarrassing. She talked about overcoming adversity and never giving up. Then she tried to have me come up and stand with her. I think I ran and hid in the bathrooms at that point. I was seven.

I finish my dinner and pick up my plate. I set it down in the sink before running water over it.

"Where are you going Ed?" Mom asks.

"T-t-to my room. I'm not quite done with my note cards," I explain before walking out of the room and up the stairs. The conversation continues after a pause. Not that I'm listening or feeling left out. It's better this way.

I sprawl out on my bed and half-heartedly write my note cards. Not that I'm going to be able to use most of them. I have three note cards completely free of all s's, f's, t's, and l's. Then they become unavoidable. Sometimes I feel like stuttering and blocking early on purpose. At least it's over fast.

Not this time. Mr. Grand is making everyone speak for at least fives minutes. If it wouldn't be so embarrassing I'd just block on the first word. But it doesn't work like that. Whenever I get up in front of people I have this stupid hope that maybe I'll be able to just talk. The words will come naturally and I won't have to worry and everyone will applaud at the end.

It's never happened.

I sometimes have dreams where I can talk. They're horrible, once I wake up. When I was little they were so realistic that I'd think I was cured. It actually worked for awhile. Then I'd talk to someone (instead of to myself or Al) and I'd stutter again. I think those episodes are why Mom thinks it's purely mental and that if I wasn't so nervous I wouldn't stutter.

It's not true.

Because sometimes I'd wake up and immediately try to say a t or s word and I'd completely block on it.

Sometimes I miss those dreams. I enjoy dreaming them. I'm always so articulate there and online. I love big words, I just can't use them.

The AIM window on my computer flashes:

**MindofSteel has just logged in.**

I smile and walk over to my computer.

**Stutterbug**: Al, will you check my paper?

**MindofSteel**: sure

**MindofSteel**: why don't you just give the speech to me?

**Stutterbug**: Just read the paper. It's better than anything I could say. And it's not it's going to help or anything. Grand hates me.

**MindofSteel**: Ed, remember what Winry told you? think positive

**Stutterbug**: Hmm. Let's see. I have to give a SPEECH tomorrow that has to last for FIVE WHOLE MINUTES. Mr. Grant hates me. He's going to give me an F.

**MindofSteel**: You don't know that. He might like it.

S**tutterbug**: I wasn't done yet. I'm going to block, I know it. I almost blocked at dinner on "fish". Since Humanities is fifth period I'll have had the whole day to get nervous. Then after I screw up my speech I have an interview with the counselor after school. I'm supposed to convince her to get me out of Humanities.

**MindofSteel**: your not dead yet?

**Stutterbug**: That's the best you could come up with?

**MindofSteel**: winry's not asking you to the dance?

**MindofSteel**: There were a few misplaced commas, but other than that you're fine.

**Stutterbug**: Thanks Al.

**MindofSteel has signed off**.

I smile at the name. It's a play on the fact that Al has a mind like a steel trap. He never forgets anything. As for me, well Stutterbug is what my dad used to call me when I was little. I don't mind it at all. It's rather cute. Which is why I've refused to tell Winry the real story. I just made up something about how some people are shutterbugs and I'm a stutterbug. She didn't believe me.

I like the sound of it.

Stutterbug. Like Katydid or Flutterbudget.

A nice little nonsense word.

It sounds a lot nicer than stutterer. That word sounds awkward even when normal people say it.

I sign off of AIM and turn off my computer.

It's time to go to bed if I want to get up in the morning.

I'm standing in front of my Humanities class ready to present. Mr. Grand gives me the signal and the stop watch starts.

"The main difference between a war crime and a crime against humanity is—

"What's that Statute?" a kid asks. I glance at Mr. Grand. He pretends not to notice the interruption.

"Is that war crimes take place during war and crimes against—

"It gives the definitions of crimes against humanity. Should you have at least mentioned it Edward?"

"Humanity can t—

I've reached the first t. I was even going to use the word 'take', it just slipped out. I wanted to say 'happen'.

"T-tt-tt—ttt-ttt—

I'm making a fizzing sound. Like when you open a can of coke. Except it doesn't end.

"Tttt-tt-tta—

My tongue taps the roof of my mouth spastically. My stomach begins to cramp. Tears are rolling down my face. Everyone's laughing, even Mr. Grand.

"Take a deep breath Ed."

It's my mom's voice. What's she doing at school?

"Edward, time to wake up."

What?!

I'm giving a presentation I don't need to—

"Wake up, Edward."

Mom's voice again. But what's she doing here?

"It's time for school."

WHAT?!

Right, this is a dream.

I open my eyes and sure enough I'm in my bed staring up at my ceiling. Mom was sitting next to me in my computer chair.

"Good, you're awake," she says, smiling softly before getting up. "There's pancakes for breakfast."

I'm not a morning person.

That is a fairly well known fact around here. I watch as Al carefully butters his two pancakes and carefully pours just the right amount of syrup over them. He's such a perfectionist.

I smear butter, jam, and drench the pancakes in syrup before shoveling them into my mouth. This way I don't have to talk to anyone. Dad comes down and sits at the table. Mom has to stop him from trying to eat the paper. She hands him a cup of black coffee. How on earth that coffee is safe for human consumption I do not know. I've seen it strip varnish off of wood before.

Dad normally drinks about three cups before he's ready to join the living. It's going to kill him someday, I swear.

My dad tries to offer to drive us to school. It comes out something like this:

"Any-mumble-mumble ride?"

Mom mouths 'I'll drive.'

"Sure," Al replies after swallowing. I pointedly keep my mouth full as I run over the checklist of things I need. I finished my Pre-Calculus homework in class. Again. I hate French and I know I misspelled all of those vocab words. Nothing's due in Physics or History. I have my lunch. I put my paper in my backpack last night. I have my note cards. And I don't need anything for Ceramics.

And Mom knows that I'm going to be staying late.

I'm ready.

I'm walking to school today. Otherwise Mom will try to kiss my cheek and tell me to make good choices. It's so embarrassing. Mom's never quite caught on to the non-kiss-off lipstick craze either. So I'll have to scrub it off or have Winry think that I have a girlfriend. Which I don't. And probably never will since most of the attractive girls at my school have names that start with s, t, f, or l.

I've never explained this to Winry. And for good reason too. She thinks for some deranged reason that Sloth Peccato likes me. Which is not true. Because that would just be too weird. It's not like she's ugly or anything. She's actually fairly pretty. She just looks like a younger version of my mom.

My mom even says she does. The instant she saw Sloth in my yearbook she got out her old high school one. Aside from the difference in hairstyles, they could have been twins.

I've never introduced them. I have this stupid fear that Mom will see Sloth and realize that she's her long lost baby or something horrible like that. That and they'd probably get along great. They both adore public speaking. Granted Sloth has never talked to me about my stutter.

In fact, she's covered for me quite a bit during presentations.

Which is why Winry thinks she likes me.

"Bye Mom!" I yell, finishing my breakfast and heading towards the door.

"You sure you don't want a ride?"

"Yes."

Ling's going to give me a ride. He'd promised.

Unfortunately, I can't exactly tell my mom that. I grab my backpack, and sling it over my shoulder.

The air outside is cool. It's a relief after the stuffy house.

I sigh and walk towards Ling's house. I've known Ling since seventh grade when he moved here. We ended up doing some sort of presentation together. I was alone because nobody wanted to be partners with the stutterer. Russell was also sick with the flu that day, otherwise we'd have been partners. Ling was, of course, the new kid. After that we became best friends. We also got a big fat F on the project.

"Hey Ed!"

I turn around. It's Winry.

"I didn't know you were walking to school today," she says. "Your mom already left with Al."

"Yeah."

"You going to Ling's house?"

"Yes."

"Sloth said that Mrs. Curtis has a new room and classes are going to start tomorrow."

Why does every conversion with Winry somehow include Sloth? Maybe I should ask Winry if _she_ has a crush on Sloth. But that's not true or even possible. For as long as I can remember Winry has been obsessed with Russell. Russell of course, is completely disturbed by this. I think Winry scares him.

"Did she?" Why on earth would Sloth know anything about Izumi, let alone when Speech Class starts? It's not as if she stutters or anything. She loves speaking in front of people and Sloth's in drama. So there's no way she could be a stutterer, right?

"Yeah," Winry says. I note the sly look in her eye.

"Does she st-st-stutter or ss-ssomething?"

"I don't think so," Winry says in a sing-song voice.

"What do you think?"

"I think its cause she likes you."

"That's st-st-stupid Winry. There's no way she llllikes me."

There can't be. I know Sloth doesn't like me. I don't know how, but I do. Sure she's completely understanding of my stutter. She's never made it worse or teased me about it. Sloth also doesn't care if I can't say her name. But that doesn't mean she likes me.

"She does too."

Sometimes I hate Winry.

"She's never nervous around me," I counter. It's true. Sloth never so much as blushes when she's near me.

"She's never nervous, period."

True. We have yet to see Sloth Peccato stammer, stutter, or flush. She is composure defined.

I stick my tongue out at Winry. We're at Ling's house anyway and there's not room in the car for Winry.

"Bye Winry!" I yell, sprinting for Ling's door.

"ED!"

I smile widely. Ling's little sports car barely sits three people. There'd be more room if he actually cleaned it.

Okay, I'd like to introduce a little something I invented. It's called the Reviewing Form. This is for everyone who isn't quite sure what to put in a review in order to help me improve and (update faster).

Mechanical Aspects (1-10, 10 being the highest):

Areas that the Writer did extremely well at:

Areas that need work:

Chapter Question: Did Ed stutter too much?

I'll give up a cookie or some unspecified but awesome reward if you answer this correctly: Who's the other stutterer? (NOTE: the stutterer might not have been mentioned or even alluded to in this chapter)


	2. Chapter 2

I'm so glad that everyone seems to love my demented little brain child as much as I do. I was going to post this Sunday night, but then I discovered a minor error and, because I'm utterly paranoid and out a beta, didn't post it.

And don't pester me about updates. My schedule is as follows: Physics, Pre-Calculus, AP English, AP US History, Ceramics, and Spanish 2 with a not-so great teacher. Expect fewer updates around November, the first part of December, January, and the first part of February. That's ski team season. Which means in addition to my schedule, I'll have practices 2 days a week and, during January and February, races on Fridays.

I forgot to mention last chapter, but Stuttering Towards Ecstasy was _supposed _to be a really cool play on Sarah McLachlan's song, Stumbling Towards Ecstasy. Unfortunately, the song is actually called Fumbling Towards Ecstasy making Stuttering a slightly less cool play on the song title.

lost cause : I'm so sorry you had to go through that. Writing this story really has made me realize how lucky I am. Would you mind being my fact checker for this story? I've been trying to make it as accurate as possible, but I haven't been able to find a really good first hand account of how it feels to block/stutter. If you're interested email me: (and because FFN tends to hate links: straykitty9thatyahoodotcom [replace "at" with and "dot" with .)

PS. You're the main reason I'm updating this earlier.

I don't own Conceptual Physics 10th edition, (which is where the example problem was taken from) and, despite the fact that it's an awesome physics book (as far as those things go), have no desire to. I don't own Toyota either. Or FMA for that matter.

I scowl.

Ling's sports car was in the shop. His mom's Landcruiser wasn't.

"So how do you think your presentation's going to go?" Ling asks, as his sister Mei gets out at her elementary school. She's in sixth grade and can't wait for high school. Al can. You see Mei made the discovery that while she won't get to be in high school with _me_ (she _used_ to have a crush on me), she'll have one year with Al.

Al is exactly looking forward to the prospect of having a hyperactive freshman following him around his senior. Not that he can tell Mei that he doesn't like her. He's much too kind. And I think she gave him a cat once.

"Horribly," I mutter. Mr. Grand hates me. He really does. Not that anyone believes me. They think that just because he's a teacher that he's impartial. Which he's not. He enjoys seeing me fail. I know it. But today's the last day I have to spend in his horrible class. That so counts as a positive thought.

"Ed, what happened to thinking positive?"

"Mr. Grand."

"He doesn't hate you."

"Oh, yes, he does."

"You can't prove it, shorty."

Before I can do something, like scream at Winry, Ling interjects something.

"Mr. Grand isn't particularly fair to Ed."

I smirk at Winry.

"Are you going to ask Russell t-to the dance?" I say, changing the subject. I stutter, but I don't care. Winry and Ling have heard me do far worse. And they don't laugh at my stutter.

"Shut up!" Winry yells, glaring at me.

"Do you want me t-to ask him f-f-for you?"

"Ed, stop it!" Winry's giving me the death glare. But I'm not afraid. There's no way she could be hiding a wrench in jeans those tight.

"You sure? I bet he'llll s-sssay yes."

WHACK!

What sort of girl hides weapons in her bra?!

"I told you to stop."

"YOU—THAT WRENCH—BRA!" I am totally inarticulate.

"Yes. I had to put it somewhere and it wouldn't fit in my pocket," Winry says. She doesn't even look ashamed.

"And you couldn't have worn lllooser pants, why?" I ask. I've never seen why girls feel the need to shove themselves into clothes that are too small. What's the point? It doesn't make them look more attractive, quite the opposite in fact. It's like they think that being able to_ get into _a size 5 is the same as actually _being _a size 5.

"Are you calling me fat?" Winry demands.

There is only one right answer:

"No."

Winry glares at me. As if that's going to ferret the truth out.

I say nothing.

"Oh look it's Sloth." Winry rolls down the window. "Hi Sloth!"

Sloth looks startled. Startling as well. The jean skirt is about the most normal thing she's wearing today. Teal and blue striped stockings, an off the shoulder red shirt with floaty sleeves, and high heeled brown boots more than make up for the normality of denim.

I love how Sloth dresses, if only because Winry hates it.

Sloth waves back hesitantly. Envy, her evil twin mutters something to her. She waves again and walks off. Winry rolls up the window.

"Ugg. I can't believe what she's wearing today. Those shirts are so last year and those stocking are for seven year olds."

Ling and I ignore her.

"Her lipstick makes her look like she's trying to be a movie star or something."

She's wrong. Sloth doesn't _try_ to look like a movie star. She looks like one. But she doesn't like me. I don't like her either. Her twin scares me.

"—he looks so creepy. I swear, I've seen Sloth wear that shirt."

Right. Envy was wearing a shirt that looked like the evil green twin of Sloth's. Fitting. Considering his evil twin status and green hair.

"I'm so glad he's only in one of my classes this year. It was so creepy last year when he tried to dance with Ed."

I turn red. Winry's wrong again. Envy didn't _try_ to dance with me. He did.

There weren't enough girls that day and some of the guys were sitting in the middle, while the rest of them, including me, tried to find partners. Envy's best friend, Roy, was in the middle. Russell was there too. Granted, he was avoiding Winry at the time. He was terrified she'd kiss him. (It was a goal for him to make it to 16 without being kissed by Winry.)

The PE teachers seemed to have something against boys sitting out due to lack of partners. Mr. Armstrong must've told the boys that they had to dance with another guy, or else. Nobody wanted to disobey him.

I remember standing a little away from everyone else, hoping that Russell would pick me, because we were friends and at least I knew him. When I saw him with some freshman I looked down. I didn't want to look like I liked him or anything. I'm not gay and since Russell looks so much like me it'd be narcissism or something equally screwed up.

Another pair of Converse toes joined mine. I stared at them. Ling didn't wear Converse. One of them tapped my foot. I looked up. It was Envy. He was blushing.

He mumbled something.

"Huh?" was my eloquent reply.

"Do you to be the girl or shall I?"

"Which ever you want," I said softly, looking down again. I'd probably end up as the girl, like I did every time the PE teachers forced me to dance with another boy. Winry claims it's because of my "feminine looks." Which is not true. Just because I have long hair and haven't gotten my growth spurt YET doesn't mean I look like a girl.

"Right, so I'll be the girl." My head snapped up. What?

"I know both positions, okay." Envy's pale face was completely red now.

"Right," I said smiling a little. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I was the guy.

"Silence," he said, then some strange word that I later learned meant short in Japanese.

The dance should have been awkward. I should have hated it. It wasn't and I didn't. Envy was a lot more accommodating to the fact that I was about a head shorter than him than most of the girls had been. And I never got the feeling that he was sneering at my height. At least not until I realized what chibi meant.

Ling expertly parked the car and waited for us to get out. He was taking Portuguese at the college and parking over there today. Winry scurried off to her architecture class while I shuffled to my Pre-Calculus class.

Pre-Calc went fine, until Mr. Grumman called on me for the answer to the warm-up. It's that math is difficult for me. Quite the opposite, really. What is difficult is trying to explain that I _meant _to say six instead of seven. I know the answer, I just can't say. And everyone thinks I'm stupid because of it.

"No. I meant ss-ss-sssssss-ss—

"Sixteen?"

Dammit.

Grumman's normally much better about my stutter. Maybe he's impatient today.

"Ss-ss-ss—

"Jean what'd you get?"

I resist the urge to slam my head into the desk. It won't help matters. It'll just convince everyone that I'm mentally unstable as well as dumb.

I finish the homework early and turn it in before the bell rings. It's nothing much. Just a review of logarithms. Really simple if you remember the laws.

I slowly walk down the stairs and around the corner to my French class. I hate it. The French are stupid. I also can't spell in that language. Granted, English doesn't exactly have the best spelling, with all the silent e's, however there are no silent l-l-e-s's. It's also a fairly useless language because the French tend to ignore you unless your accent is perfect. Which mine isn't. I think a Canadian accent would be more useful in France than high school French.

The French teacher also likes _cats_. And according to the other students, has a horrible accent. Not that I can tell or anything. I barely understand a word she says anyway.

I also did the wrong set of words and consequently fail the spelling test. Not that the homework would help or anything. If there's one thing that I'm absolutely sure of, besides the fact that Sloth doesn't like me, it's that I will never be able to spell in French.

I spend the rest of the period wondering exactly how bad my Humanities presentation could go. Not exactly the most productive train of thought, but it beats conjugating French verbs.

Physics is fine. I rock at all things science. That and today's just a day to work on stuff. Like the 25 exercise questions that are due this Friday. They're pretty easy. Just simple questions like: A friend says that, as long as a car is at rest, no forces at on it. What do you if you're in the mood to correct the statement of your friend?

After scribbling down my answer (Gravity is force and since the car isn't floating…), I glance over at Ling. Instead of working on the problems he's started doodling. A heart. Around the initials LY + WR.

I return to physics. It's either that or be forced to listen to him go on and on about Winry's features. He's not even fazed by the fact that she keeps a WRENCH in her BRA. That has to count as a form of insanity. Right up there with jumping on Oprah's sofa.

AP History is close to nightmaric.

We're doing another group project.

Which is fine because it's just me, Russell, and Winry. Not the best group dynamics when you consider Winry and Russell's conflicting motives of kissing and not being kissed. But at least it's predictable. Then Sloth came over.

"Can I be in a group with you," she drawls out, low and pleasant. I envy her speech. She makes it sound so easy. Never have I heard her trip over a word or mispronounce anything. Yet she doesn't seem to care that I stutter. She, who speaks so easily, doesn't mind when I do the exact opposite. This doesn't mean she likes me. No matter what Winry says, Sloth does not like me.

Winry is about to find some clever way to refuse her. She's never liked Sloth very much. I think it might have something to do with Winry asking Sloth what eyebrow template she used to pluck her eyebrows with. Sloth refused, hotly denying that her eyebrows were anything but natural.

"Sure, take a seat," Russell says surprising us all. Even Sloth raised her eyebrows.

There's no place for her to sit. We're arranged in a semi-circle, Winry and I being closest to the opening.

Instead of leaving like any other girl (aside from Winry, but she would've have asked in the first place), Sloth walks over and sits on Russell's desk. He's shocked. Most girls tend to avoid getting close to Russell. I think the combination of Winry and her WRENCH and Russell's Touch Me And Die Painfully vibes/looks tend to scare them off.

Winry looks like she wants to kill something.

Sloth refuses to notice.

"That's not what I h—

Sloth "accidentally" puts her hand over Russell's and smirks at Winry before apologizing. I knew she'd never forget that eyebrow comment. Russell shuts up. He can take a hint. That or he's too surprised at having non-Winry female attention to do anything about it. It's been years, so the shock alone might do it.

If it wasn't for the fact that Winry would never stick her hand down her shirt in front of Russell, Sloth would have a concussion by now.

I think Sloth knows that.

She looks far too smug not to.

Mr. Hughes finally reveals what the project we're going to be spending the next two weeks on, but not before he shows us an overhead of his daughter. The whole class groans.

When he reveals the project they groan loader.

We have to sell a colony.

Which we already did in eighth grade. I think I even still have the brochure saved somewhere on my hard drive. Maybe we'll get the same colony. That'd make it easy. It's not cheating if I already did the work.

Still it's a presentation; and even though I won't have to say much, it's still public speaking. Not as bad as Humanities is going to be, but nothing else really compares to the sheer horror that Humanities can be. Five whole minutes of "speaking." Or I could just refuse to do it and get a zero. A zero's not that much different from the F I know Grand will give me.

"Okay, so you four are a group?" Hughes asks, looking at us all. Sloth is the only one with the presence of mind to nod. I'm too busy freaking out about Humanities. Winry too busy concentrating on not grabbing that wrench. Russell's too shocked. He's still getting over the fact that his Don't Come Near Me aura is ineffective around Sloth. You'd never believe that some one as warm and cuddly as Fletcher could be related to Russell. Russell likes to say you'd never believe someone as sane and nice as Al could be related to me. He's wrong of course.

"Right," Hughes continues, not discouraged at all. "You're going to be selling the Pennsylvania colony. Brotherly love, eh?"

The animosity is stifling.

I stand and stare at the door to DOOM!!! It's beige and inherently evil.

"It's not going to open if you just stare at it," Ling says, appearing behind me without a sound. I jump.

"Don't ss-ss-sneak up on me llllike that!" I exclaim weakly. I hate my stutter.

"Are you nervous?" Ling asks trying the door. It's locked. I nod. More people gather around the door.

"I heard that he's in a good mood today," one person whispers.

"Before or after 3rd period?"

"After, but I think 4th might have—

Silence. I refuse to look up. Mr. Grand parts the small gathering of students easily. He's a rival for Mr. Armstrong, bulk-wise. I still haven't decided which is worse. Armstrong in all his muscley glory or Mr. B. Grand asking me questions designed to make me stutter. And no, we do not know his first name. I assume it's bastard, but no one else agrees.

"Enter."

His voice sounds like DOOM.

His room looks like DOOM.

His face looks like DOOM.

Mr. Grand is DOOM.

We all file meekly into the classroom and sit in our assigned seats. I, of course, have been forced to occupy the seat closest to Mr. Grand's (DOOM!!!) desk. It's in the front row. The lone redeeming feature it possesses, is the fact that Ling sits next to me. Aside from that, it's hell.

After Mr. B. Grand takes roll he announces the order in which we present.

"Edward Elric…"

I stare at him in disbelief. He can't be serious. He must be joking. I can't be going first out of everyone. He seriously has to be kidding me.

Kidding probably doesn't even exist in his vocabulary. Neither does nice.

I'm so screwed.

Okay. We're going to review anti-stuttering techniques, I tell myself frantically.

Breathe out before beginning a word. That one's easy.

Don't speed up. Harder. I just want to get it over with.

Calm down. Impossible.

Don't get nervous. Too late.

Commit suicide. Damn, Ling took my pencil.

"Mr. Elric when do you plan on presenting? Now or next week?" Mr. Grand crunches on the word week. The class titters slightly. I gulp. I have a choice? One look at his face tells me the answer had better be now.

"Now." My voice is small, scared, and pathetic.

I'm going to fail.

I walk up in front of the class. Everyone is watching me. Some whisper to each other. Harmless stuff I'm sure, but I can't help but think they're talking about me, Edward Elric, the stuttering wonder. Can't even say his own last name. What freak. Can't say that word either. His mom's a public speaker, I'll bet she can't believe him.

Damn it. Think positive.

I'm not dead yet.

Is it possible to die of fear?

What about embarrassment?

What if I just pass out?

I stare at my note cards.

"A crime against humanity differs from a war crime in that a war crime is only committed during a war, whereas a crime against humanity doesn't necessarily happen during a war. International lllllllaw defines it as massive scale atrocities committed against a body of people."

I can't believe I said that word. Maybe today _is_ going to be different. Maybe I won't stutter anymore.

"An often used example of a crime against humanity would be the Holocaust. That's where crimes against humanity are first mentioned, in the Nuremberg T-t-trials. The international world was appalled at what had happened in their own backyard. They created the," I pause to take a breath. I can't not say 'the London Charter of the International Military Tribunal.' That's its proper name and I'll get points taken off if I don't say it. Double because it has an l. That's Grand's special way of discouraging word substitution.

"Llllllllondon Charter of the International Military T-t-tribunal. It defines a crime against humanity as the deportation, extermination, enslavement, murder and other heinous acts against a civilian population. Which is exactly what the Nazis did."

Someone drops a pencil and whispers something to their friend. Who giggles.

They're not listening to me.

"As sis-sis-sssiss-ssseen in the Nuremberg Trials, the excuse—

Somebody sneezes. Mr. Grand coughs, and looks at his watch, impatient.

Fine, I'll hurry up.

Hurrying only makes it worse.

But no one's paying attention.

Better make it quick then.

"My sss-ss—sss—sss-ss-s—s—

I'm gasping for air now. It's happened. I've blocked. I meant to say 'the excuse that my commanding officers told me to do it doesn't work'. That's what I needed to say, but somehow superiors popped into my head. I made a point of writing commanding officers even though the source said superiors. This is why.

"Ssss—ss-ss—ss-ss-ssss—

My throat tightens. I can't get the word out.

I clap my hands and try again. It's the only thing that helps when the stuttering gets this bad.

"Saa—suu

"Don't applaud yourself, Mr. Elric," Mr. Grand drawls. "You have not earned it."

"Ss-ss—

The s's come between gasps for breath. I've never hyperventilated before and I don't know what it feels like.

I'm not making sounds anymore. I'm just fighting for breath.

"Mr. Elric, you can leave now and go get a drink of water. You will receive another F though."

I bolt for the door.

Bastard.

'Another f'.

I walk over to the drinking fountain and hold down the silver button. I'm still trying to regain my breath and I frantically gulp down the water, as if it's going to help.

I choke. Someone pats me, hard, on the back. Once I'm done choking, I turn around, prepared to stutter my thanks. Instead I stare.

It's Envy.

"You alright?" he asks. His pale face is beet red and his green hair is damp with sweat. He's dressed in the school PE uniform. White-gold (more commonly know as beige) shirt and bright blue shorts. He has bright pink and black knee socks. Probably Sloth's, I think.

My heart's racing.

Because I just failed my presentation.

I groan.

"Edo?" His own personal nickname for me. I'm sure it's some Japanese or Italian way of mocking my height. He does sound worried though. He's never been anything but nice to me. Still, it's rather disconcerting to have someone stop threatening some freshman and wave cheerfully at you.

"I fff-fff-ffff…" I let the f trail off and wait for him to finish the world. Everyone else eventually does. Even Mom.

"At least you don't have PE with Armstrong. Again," he says, sliding down the wall into a seated position. I join him. Mr. Grand doesn't want me back and I don't want to go back. Too bad I didn't think to grab my backpack.

"I have hu-hu-hu—

I'm hiccupping now. He reaches over and gently rubs my back. I tense. Why is he doing this?

"It's okay. It helps Sloth," he murmurs dragging me closer. I don't know why I let him. He maneuvers me until I'm in between his legs with his knees resting on my sides. I blush at the position. I'm not gay. Envy just looks like a girl. This isn't sexual. Girls give each other back rubs all the time. This is the same thing, right?

"Shhh, shhh, shhh," Envy says rubbing my back lightly. I calm down. It's impossible not to. And I like having my back rubbed. It's my one weakness.

"Now what were you going to say?" Envy asks, his voice low and soothing. It sounds like Sloth's, I realize. Which makes sense, seeing as they're twins.

"I have Humanities with Grant."

"Ah," Envy says. "Are you going to stay in there or take the speech class?"

Why does everybody know about the damn speech class?

Voices cut short any possible replies.

"I think he went this way."

"Let's check here first."

I frown. What are those people taking about?

"I, Mr. Armstrong, shall track down—

Envy.

"Shit, shit, shit," he mutters moving to get up. I rise too. His hands ghosts across my butt before dancing up my backside. I shiver. It's not particularly unpleasant. But I'm deprived. I practice self-denial. I don't have urges. I'm asexual. He looks like a girl!

"Well, I really enjoyed talking with you, Chibi, but I have to run," Envy says leaning forward and just staring, before twitching slightly and sprinting off.

I can't believe I just let him call me short.

Never mind the backrub. Which was very good. I wonder if Sloth taught him. I stare at my watch. 50 minutes until the end of the period. I have nothing to do. Part of me wants to go see what Envy's class is doing in PE. It's a small part and easy to squash. I don't have urges, remember. Besides, they were probably just doing a perimeter or something.

I ended up just sitting on a bench thinking. I must have dozed off in there because the sound of the bell woke me. After beating back the mass of escaping students, I grabbed my backpack. Mr. Grand didn't even notice me. He was too busy talking to some girl who looked like she was on the verge of tears.

I hurried off to ceramics.

Ceramics class passed far too quickly. Before I knew it, the clean up bell had rung and everyone started hurrying about. I stared at my latest creation: a demented hollow shrub that had a handle on it. It was supposed to be a mug.

I carefully wrapped my shrub-mug in plastic-wrap and stored it away in the cupboard. It was Ling's turn to clean the tables, so I sat down and waited for the bell to ring. It seemed to last forever.

"I'm here t-t-t-t-t-to sss-sss-ss—

"Ah, Mr. Elric, right this way," the kindly woman says leading me towards the councilors office. Normally I'd be annoyed that someone finished for me or cut me off, but I don't mind today. It's honestly less painful.

I follow the woman down the hall. She gestures to one of the empty chairs outside of the room labeled "K—Pe".

"Mr. Elric's here for his appointment," the woman says, peering into the room. I have no idea what she does. She doesn't do attendance or tardies or off-campus slips. I think she just schedules appointments and keeps track of schedules. I don't even know her name.

"Send him in," my councilor, Ms. J. Douglas, says. The woman opens the door wider and I walk in.

It's a small room that tries hard too be comfortable. Fake plants scattered about various surfaces and the walls are painted light green. Ms. J. Douglas's desk is covered with a thin layer of paperwork and surrounded by pictures of her family.

"So, Edward," she says, turning away from her computer screen to look at me. "What do you want to talk about?"

I shift from foot to foot.

"Sit down, please."

I set my backpack on the floor and sit gingerly in the chair.

"Mrs. Curtis's speech class is open," I say, making the 'sp' as sharp and p-like as possible. I don't have as much trouble with words like 'speech' and 'should', especially if I make the actual s sound short. It's one of my many tricks to avoid or at least minimize my stutter. It just doesn't always work.

"Ah, yes," Ms. Douglas says. "Fifth period, right?"

I nod.

"That's when you have Humanities." It's not a question. I nod anyway.

"Do you want to switch periods, I believe Mr. Grand—

"No!"

Ms. Douglas looks at me sharply.

"No?" she repeats.

"I want out of Humanities."

"What other English class might you be interested in taking? There's an English 11 class open, but I don't think that you'd like that." She pauses, and consults her computer before facing me. "We could try AP English. It's only offered—

"Yes."

"Okay, that means you'll have to be in second period Physics with Mr. Knox That's okay, right?"

I nod.

"So you're dropping French?"

I nod. I hate that class.

"And you don't want to take another language during seventh period or in zero period?"

I shake my head. Speech counts as my language, so I don't have to take three years of French or Spanish to graduate.

"There's some nice Spanish classes open sixth period."

I shake my head again. Ms. Douglas seems determined to drag this out as long as possible. It's almost like she wants me to stutter. Maybe she's in cahoots with Grand or something. But that's not possible. She's new to Lakeview High and Grand isn't exactly the epitome of congeniality.

"You sure?"

I nod.

"You know, AP English might not be best. You'll have to catch up on most of the work."

I say nothing.

"There's a lot of extra reading."

I refuse to speak.

"What I'm trying to say, Edward, is that it might be best for you just to stay in Humanities. I don't think you should go into English 11, but maybe AP English would be too challenging for you. You're barely averaging a C in Mr. Grand's class and I don't see how taking AP English would be wise at this point."

The bitch.

I can't believe her.

Grand so put her up to this. There's no other explanation for this. I'm normally excellent at English. Up until now I've gotten nothing but A's.

"I'm just not good at presentations," I say, carefully weeding out the stutter-words.

"There's still going to be presentations in AP English. In fact, there's probably more there than in Humanities."

But the teacher _can't_ be worse than Grand. It's not possible.

"Mr. Grand hates me," I state.

"Nonsense," Ms. Douglas declares.

"He gives me eh—bad grades on presentations," I say, narrowly avoiding saying 'F'. I don't want to stutter now.

"Maybe you should just try harder."

That's a stupid idea.

"I can't."

"Of course you can."

Oh, no I can't. Dumb bitch.

"No, I can't."

"I'm sure you can."

"He hates me."

"That's ridiculous."

"He knows I can't speak."

"You're speaking right now."

I lose patience.

"I st-st-st-st-ssss-sss-sss-sss—

I block.

"Yes?"

"I st-s-stu-sttu-sttttt-ssst—

"Yes?"

She's becoming more irritated.

Of course, she's new here and I don't think she believes all the stories about me. Lucky me, stuck with the rogue counselor who's probably a scientologist nutcase who doesn't believe in psychology or stuttering.

"I st-st-st-st-st—

"What are you trying to say?" Ms. Douglas asks, clearly losing it. "If you have a disease like Tourette's I'm sure that you would be in Special Education. You were doing fine a moment before, what happened?"

I glare at her. Can't she see I'm trying? I can't stop it. In fact, I want to scream. There's a reason I'm in Speech. It's in my files. It should be obvious. The lump at the back of my throat grows warm. I'm going to cry soon. I hate this!

Yet I keep trying.

Stupid.

"I st-st-st-st-st—

"Yes? Would you mind speaking normally?"

How did such an insensitive woman become a counselor?

"I st-st-st-st—

"Yes—

"I think what Mr. Elric has been trying to inform you of, is his speech disfluency," Sloth Peccato drawls. She's silhouetted by the light in the hallway; an outline leaned up against the open door. Ms. Douglas shrinks back.

I smile gratefully. Sloth, in addition to being untouchable, unnerving, and unshakable, is the youngest daughter of Dante Peccato. Dante Peccato is one of the most formidable women in existence. Catherine the Great pales in comparison. Elizabeth I has a mild temper and sweet nature when contrasted with Dante. Isabel of Spain's treatment of the Jews, Moors, and alleged witches is mild compared to what Dante put the last school board through when they attempted to drop the Speech program.

People tend to avoid crossing Dante and her children, since the school board almost voted against the boys' cheerleading squad (Wrath's apparent passion).

So it's really no wonder Ms. Douglas is unnerved.

"What?" she sputters out.

I wish Sloth would say something like 'You heard me, bitch' or 'Dante will know about this', but she doesn't. Instead she drawls out another smooth phrase, laden with large words.

"I believe that Mr. Elric was attempting to inform of his speech disfluency, more commonly know as a stutter." Sloth remains in the doorway. I think she knows she's most imposing there. After all, she must be an expert in staging. She's only been in drama all her life.

"That's none of your business," Ms. Douglas snaps. "You're interrupting a private meeting between Edward and I."

"The door was open and you weren't letting him finish his sentence," Sloth states speaking faster.

"You have no business being here," Ms. Douglas informs her.

"I have an appointment," Sloth declares, looking like a storm cloud. Most people start groveling about now, I reflect.

"For what?" Ms. Douglas demands.

"My schedule," Sloth replies darkly.

"Then wait outside," Ms. Douglas replies harshly.

"I was," Sloth says before turning out of view. There's a slight thump as she lands in the chair.

Silence.

Ms. Douglas pointedly closes the door.

"_Do_ you stutter?" Ms. Douglas asks, returning to her seat.

I nod.

Ms. Douglas slumps.

I want out.

"You really want to do AP English?"

I nod.

I also want to switch counselors.

"You may go," Ms. J. Douglas says. I bolted out the door and nearly run into Sloth. She steadies me. She's almost a head taller than me.

"Gonna be okay?" she asks, looking worried. I attempt a smile and nod.

"Thanks," I whisper before she walks into the room. She smiles and squeezes my hand gently.

I blush.

Because I don't get positive female attention often. Because she's more than rather pretty. She's gorgeous and has never thrown a wrench at me. Her hair's pretty.

Envy's ass is nicer.

That thought ruins everything.

Because I'm not gay. Or bi. Or straight. I'm asexual, remember? I don't have urges and if I did, which I don't, I wouldn't act on them, because I practice self-denial.

Besides, if Sloth really liked me, she'd have kissed me instead of holding my hand. She's daring, bold, and fearless. Hand-holding and cuddling don't go with that.

Therefore she doesn't like me.

Envy does.

These thoughts can't be normal.

Maybe I'm going insane.

Please review. See chapter 1 for the form. Also, if you want me to update faster, it's best NOT to leave a review saying "write more" or "update!!!" An easy way to encourage me would be to share a relevant story or something.


	3. Chapter 3

Here's the long-awaited Chapter 3. Sorry it took so long. I don't even have good reasons/excuses. Other than a PHYSICS test (which I did quite well on the first part and spectacularly failed at the second part) and a MATH test (which I did really well on). Of course, the downside was that I completely skived off on the homework and didn't do a lot of it. However, I'm maintaining a high B and plan to get full points on all the homework. My other classes are manageable. That or they're sitting quietly in the corner plotting my downfall. Unfortunately the latter is more likely. Spanish is evil, or rather the teacher continuously fails to provoke a positive emotional response from me and I should never be allowed to be that disinterested in a class that matter. Ceramics is awesome but I suck with deadlines (which is closely relating to the amount of titchy little details I should be known for).

But now I have a week long break and I intend to WRITE.

Warnings for the chapter: Normal Teenage Drama, verbose!Winry, Physics-ness, and depressive!Ed.

Disclaimer: I don't own AIM (I just have it installed), I don't own Conceptual Physics 10th edition by Paul G. Hewitt from which the two or three problems are taken from (pages 71-72 were used) but I don't think he'd sue me (mainly because he's slightly nutty, whether it's from too much physics or old age is unknown).

_--incipio--_

I wait for Mom to pick me up in front of the school. People are gathered in groups, happily talking in the bright sunshine. I tap my foot. Ling's already left, and so have Winry and Russell. Al and Fletcher are working on a group project at some person's house.

I glance at my watch. It's three-thirty and Mom's late.

Someone laughs loudly and I flinch. I listen for the mention of my name or the sound of a faked stutter. Nothing. Nothing, that I can hear anyway. Winry would accuse me of jumping to conclusions and tell me off for being "so egotistical as to think _you're_ the only person getting made fun of." She'd be right, if she hadn't been referring to when TJ Elliot and Seth Coachran, from the football team, were pretending to stutter.

It didn't last long though, the teasing. Winry likes to think it had something to do with the extremely public way Sloth refused to accept Seth's invitation to lunch. Sloth wouldn't have gone out with Seth anyway. He's far too freckled.

Besides, why would TJ stop just because Sloth spurned Seth? They aren't that close. There's no way that they would have gotten the point from that incident alone, Seth and TJ aren't that smart. I think the subsequent blacking of both Seth and TJ's eyes had a lot more to do with the sudden end to teasing than anything Sloth did.

Mom pulls up. Finally.

I walk over, open the door, and get in.

"Are you okay?" she asks, looking duly concerned. I scowl and cross my arms.

"No."

Silence.

For once she doesn't say anything. I stare out the window as the houses flash by. I sigh. I hate stuttering. Maybe it'd be better if people like Mr. Grand and Ms. Douglas weren't so horrible about or nobody teased me about or if people were willing to wait for me to finish. But no one's that patient. In fact, out of all the people I know, only four will wait for me.

Dad.

Al.

Izumi.

Sloth.

And Envy I suppose. We haven't talked much, but he's never finished my sentences for me or interrupted me. He's also never teased me about my stuttering or even made a comment on it. It's like he's lived with a stutterer before or something.

Not like that's possible or anything. Everyone would know if one of the Peccato kids stuttered. And while Gluttony's definitely odd, he doesn't stutter.

When I get home, I grab a cookie from the container and a glass from the cupboard. I fill the glass with water, and flee to my room. All this without a word from Mom. No questions about my day or classes. If I wasn't so upset, this would actually be nice.

When I get to my room, I turn on the computer and wait for it to boot up. As I wait, I dig through my pack and look for the stupid hand-out we were given in history. It's going to be a miracle if we ever get anything done on the brochure, let alone the presentation. I sigh. I suppose it could be worse. After all, I still could be stuck with Grand as a teacher.

I sign on AIM.

LuminousLight is online and listening to the Decemberist song _Here I Dreamt I Was An Architect_. I roll my eyes. Sometimes, I think Dad tries too hard to be ironic.

**LuminousLight**: Hey Ed.

**Stutterbug**: I hate my life.

**LuminousLight**:What happened?

**Stutterbug**: My counselor is evil. Mr. Grand hates me.

**LuminousLight**: Oh.

**LuminousLight**: Care to explain?

**Stutterbug**: No.

**LuminousLight**: Ed.

**Stutterbug**: Fine. I blocked in the presentation. He let me quit early, instead of spending the rest of the five minutes standing up in front of the class. Of course, I also failed it. Again. Then my counselor didn't want me to drop French.

**LuminousLight**: Why'd you take it if you hate it?

**Stutterbug**: I didn't want to. I was going to take Speech, but things happened. It was either that or Speech and Debate. I did French. Anyway, she practically made me stutter. Sloth ended up 'rescuing' me.

**LuminousLight**: Sloth Peccato?

**LuminousLight**: The one whose mother is Dante Peccato.

**LuminousLight**: The one Winry says likes you?

**Stutterbug**: No, the other Sloth.

**LuminousLight**: and…

**Stutterbug**: and I got my schedule switched.

**LuminousLight**: What's it like now?

**Stutterbug**: Pre-calc is the same.

**Stutterbug**: Physics with Dr. Knox

**Stutterbug**: AP English with Kärki

**Stutterbug**: History's the same

**Stutterbug**: Speech (obviously)

**Stutterbug**: and then Ceramics hasn't changed either.

**LuminousLight**: Ah. I see.

**LuminousLight**: Anything else?

**Stutterbug**: well…

**LuminousLight**: what?

**Stutterbug**:

**Stutterbug**: Promise you won't tell Mom or Al?

**LuminousLight**: cross my heart.

**Stutterbug**: Okay so there's this guy. But he dresses like a girl. He even wears skorts and stuff.

**LuminousLight**: nylons?

**Stutterbug**: NO!

**Stutterbug**: Anyway, he also has really long hair. It's green.

**LuminousLight**: Yes…and…

**Stutterbug**: He's the one who danced with me in PE last year, he also gave me a backrub today

**LuminousLight**: did you like it?

**Stutterbug**: You know me! Backrubs are my weakness… and he's really good at them. He also touched my rear today.

**LuminousLight**: as in a pat, rub, massage, caress, clutch, bump…

**Stutterbug**: I don't want to know where you came up with idea for listing massage. But no, it was most of a really light touch. He was getting up and I was too. He had to go since he was ditching PE.

**LuminousLight**: Please tell me you're not seducing freshmen.

**Stutterbug**: EWW! No, he's a junior! I'm not even sure why he's in PE. But it was a quick little touch.

**LuminousLight**: Are you trying to come out to me?

**Stutterbug**: No! Well, maybe. Am I?

**LuminousLight**: You tell me.

**Stutterbug**: The point is, I--it felt not unpleasant. But it's only because he looks so much like a girl right? I'm not gay. He's just confusing my hormones, right? Any guy would have liked it?

**LuminousLight**: You, Edward the Asexual, have hormones?

**Stutterbug**: Yes I do, as a matter of fact. I just keep them under control.

**LuminousLight**: You're sure you're a teenager? Not just a midget adult?

**LuminousLight**: But consider the following:

**Stutterbug**: Don't quote Bill Nye!

**LuminousLigh**t: Ed, while your body can't tell whether the hand that's caressing your ass is male or female, your mind can. Most straight males would be uncomfortable around this guy and wouldn't talk to him, much less accept a back rub. You on the other hand…

**Stutterbug**: Yes?

**LuminousLight**: Don't.

**Stutterbug**: What's that supposed to mean?

**LuminousLight**: As curious as I am to discover the amount of damage my chances of ever having grandchildren have taken, I have work to do.

**LuminousLight has signed off.**

I glare at the computer screen. I'm still confused and it doesn't help that whenever I think about the conversation with Envy I get a stupid tingle in my stomach. The tingle that is notably absent when I think about Sloth squeezing my hand.

Envy's caressing of my ass is best left unmentioned.

But the theoretical reaction would a tingle in a slightly lower organ.

Not that it happened, because I didn't think about his hand in relation to my ass.

And starting research on the religions of Pennsylvania would probably be a bit more constructive than wallowing in denial.

Just as I type "religions in colonial Pennsylvania" into the Google search engine, the AIM window flashes orange.

**WinryTheRiveter has signed in.**

I sigh. I'm not going to get any work done now. Winry's going to want to talk, though it's more like vent, about Russell, the upcoming girl-ask-guy dance, and now Sloth. The first two aren't uncommon. In fact, she's been obsessed with Russell in relation to the TWIRPS dance ever since we were freshmen. She's been obsessed with him for longer. I think that it started in junior high. Al argues that it started much early, possibly in fifth grade. Fletcher says that Russell first became aware of it in eighth grade. Russell sorta twitches whenever the subject is brought up, so no one knows when he thinks Winry's obsession started.

As for Winry. Well, she just throws hard metal stuff at my head when even I ask her.

**WinryTheRiveter**: how goes it?

I think just accidentally came out to my father and I might be gay or bi. All I know for sure is that I'm attracted to Envy, who gives excellent back rubs, much more than I am to Sloth. I screwed up my Humanities presentation. Grand gave me an F and implied that he had done so on other occasions. My counselor is an evil woman who practically tried to make me stutter.

I don't actually type that. That would be more than extremely embarrassing. And Winry would probably just go on about how I need to be more positive or something.

**Stutterbug**: I hate my life.

**WinryTheRiveter**: ed, your supposed to think positively

**Stutterbug**: Kind of hard when my counselor hates me.

**WinryTheRivete**r: oh yeah, how'd your meeting go.

**Stutterbug**: Horrible. She tried to convince me to stay in Humanities and she didn't believe I had a stutter even when I started stuttering.

**WinryTheRiveter**: how is that possible?

**Stutterbug**: I don't know. I guess she thought I had some disorder like Tourette's or I was playing some sort of joke on her.

**WinryTheRiveter**: That's horrible! how did she become a counselor anyway?

**Stutterbug**: I have no idea.

**WinryTheRiveter**: so what's your schedule?

**Stutterbug**: Not that much different. I have Physics 2nd period, AP English 3rd, and then Speech. Everything else is the same.

**WinryTheRiveter**: nice your going to love Kärki. He's so cool.

**Stutterbug**: Right. What are we doing in that class anyway?

**WinryTheRiveter**: umm. We're just reading Dante's Inferno. We're covering the sins of the she-wolf and stuff.

**Stutterbug**: which would be?

**WinryTheRiveter**: uhhh. Incontenince or something like that.

**Stutterbug**: Incontinence?

**WinryTheRiveter**: yeah that word. It's just stuff like hoarders and wasters and stuff. I think they get stuck in a bog or something and they're doomed to play tugawar forever. It's something to do with the whole Allegory thing and they were opposites in life so yeah. At least, that's what I think we talked about today.

**Stutterbug**: Oh.

**WinryTheRiveter**: yeah. its really confusing and it has chapters. Even though it's a poem.

**Stutterbug**: Interesting. So have you started researching demographics yet?

**WinryTheRiveter**: No. I'm trying to forget about the stupid group project. Ugg. Its just so stupid. I mean, we did the exact same thing in jr. high. And I don't see why sloth had to be in our group. We were fine without her. She can't take a hint either.

**Stutterbug**: What do you mean? Russell _did_ ask her to sit down.

**WinryTheRiveter**: yes but she didn't have to sit on his desk. Anyway don't you find it strange.

No, what I find odd is when a girl hides weapons in her BRA. That's a whole lot stranger than sitting on a desk. Typing that would be suicide.

**Stutterbug**: No.

**WinryTheRivete**r: so has anyone asked you to the dance yet?

**Stutterbug**: No. It's in November. That's a ways away. But speaking of being asked, have you asked Russell yet?

**WinryTheRiveter**: Stop it ed.

**Stutterbug**: I don't see why you won't ask him.

**WinryTheRiveter**: That doesn't mean you can bring it up any time you like. And would it hurt to use a bit of discretion? You should at least consider other people's feelings. Bringing that up like in the car this morning was really cruel.

**Stutterbug**: What are you talking about? I was just teasing you. I didn't mean anything. It was just a joke.

**WinryTheRiveter**: You are so stupid! I didn't mean me, I meant LING! He's your best friend and teasing me about Russell in front of him like that was just plain mean Ed. Mean and cruel. He already thinks I like Russell and he doesn't need you throwing it in his face at every opportunity. You are just so ergh!

**WinryTheRiveter has signed off.**

I stare at the computer screen. A million emotions are running through my head. I suppose it was mean, but it was just a joke. And it wouldn't be any worse if Winry asked Russell, right? Ling would still be upset, right? I don't bring it up all the time. And she's almost as bad, she's always talking about Russell and crushing on him.

She's not his best friend though.

I have no excuse for that.

God, I HATE it when Winry's right.

How did she even know that Ling liked her? They don't have any classes together, so she couldn't have seen him doodling hearts on his paper. That's how I found out. Ling's been really quiet about it too. Even Al was surprised when I told him and he's the most perceptive person I know. There's no way Winry could have known. It's impossible. Of course, she'll probably just pass it off as Women's Intuition.

Why did she say that Ling only thinks she likes Russell? She does like him. It's a widely accepted fact. Winry likes Russell. Everyone knows that, even Ling. So why did Winry say that Ling only _thinks_ she likes Russell. It just doesn't make sense.

I resist the urge to bang my head against the keyboard. Doing that doesn't relieve any stress and tends to screw up the computer.

**oneofthelowmillions has signed on**.

Russell's on. Maybe he can explain Winry's strange behavior.

**oneofthelowmillions**: Alright, Ed. What did you do this time? Winry's really mad at you. She just called me.

I flinch. She's more upset than I thought if she's venting to Russell. Especially because this is about her liking him and Ling. Oh well, I might as well see what she said about me.

**Stutterbug**: What did she say?

**oneofthelowmillions**: I don't know. It's kind of hard to tell when she's SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF HER LUNGS! And I think she was crying too. So whatever you did must have been really bad.

**Stutterbug**: What was the general gist of it?

**oneofthelowmillions**: Umm. A lot of stuff about how you're an insensitive jerk, complete ass, inconsiderate of others' feelings, no sense of tact, absolute idiot, utter moron, thoughtless brute, oblivious cow, dense as a rock, as socially astute as, but she couldn't even think of anyone who was worse than you. Then she gave this piercing scream-wail of frustration mixed with anger.

I bite my lip. I didn't mean it like that. It was just a joke. Only it wasn't that funny. Ling's always been nice to me too. He's never teased me or tried to get me to say his name. I didn't mean to hurt him! I wasn't trying to do anything. I just wanted to tease Winry a little because she called me short. I didn't even think of Ling. Which is probably why Winry's so mad at me. Not that I can fault her for it either. It's not like I don't deserve it.

**Stutterbug**: Was that all?

After hitting the return key, I cross my fingers and hope.

Stupid.

Why do I always hope?

I should know it's useless by now.

**oneofthelowmillions**: No. She started ranting. She's very creative when she's pissed. She referred to you as a selfish, self-centered, oblivious social-retard, an imperceptive, thoughtless, loathsome, half-witted midget, an ungracious, short-tempered, twitchy, irascible _bete noir_ and a discourteous, doltish, lame-brained loony. My favorite part was when she called you a "midgety, boneheaded, titchy, dwarfish, runty friable little shrimp who deserves to stew in his own juices of social putrescence." It's amazing how she comes up with all of these, isn't it?

Stupid, stupid, stupid. The word ricochets through my head.

I bite my lower lip again, hard. It hurts, but I deserve it. I'm such a rotten friend.

**oneofthelowmillions**: So what was it that you did?

Can't he just leave it alone! Does he have to know what I did? Isn't it enough that I'm miserable now? Why does he have to add to it?

**oneofthelowmillions**: Come on, Ed. Please?

**oneofthelowmillions**: Look, I'm capitalizing stuff, and actually, using commas, _correctly_.

I smile in spite of myself. Russell rarely uses proper English in IM conversations, even though he knows how much it bothers me.

**Stutterbug**: Don't abuse the commas so. And I think I'd get in more trouble with Winry if I told you.

**oneofthelowmillions**: But, she ranted to me. She must want me to know.

**Stutterbug**: I don't think so. Not this. It's her in relation to you and I don't think she'd appreciate me telling you the specifics.

**oneofthelowmillions**: Oh. sigh That's what it's about. That actually explains a lot. This is really going to make the history project difficult.

**Stutterbug**: Don't remind me.

**oneofthelowmillions**: And speaking of the project, what do you know about Sloth?

**Stutterbug**: Why do you want to know? I don't like her!

**oneofthelowmillions**: None of your business.

**Stutterbug**: Then I won't tell you.

**oneofthelowmillions**: Please.

**Stutterbug**: Well, I do know that Sloth doesn't like to FAIL! Which is what is going to happen, unless you stop bugging me and actually work.

**oneofthelowmillions**: Fine then.

**oneofthelowmillions has signed off.**

I stare at the computer screen before turning off the monitor. I might as well do the physics homework. It's not like I'm going to get anything done on the history project. That and I'll probably get another lecture and or guilt trip from someone if I stay on.

That and it's due on Friday. 25 exercises, plus 11 problems. It's not so bad. Just time consuming. I look at the first exercise:

Can the velocity of an object reverse direction while maintaining a constant acceleration? If so, give an example; if not, provide an explanation.

Yes. The velocity of an object can reverse its direction and still maintain a constant acceleration. One example of this phenomena would be an object thrown in the air. During the time after the object is thrown and up until the top of the arc, the object has upwards velocity. When the object begins its descent, the direction of the velocity is reversed, yet the acceleration due to gravity (-9.8 m/s2) remains the same. Therefore…

----

An hour later I reach exercise 54, and I like it:

Why is it that a cat that accidentally falls from the top of a 50 story building hits a safety net below no faster than if it fell from the twentieth story?

I don't like cats, and I'm glad to see that the writers of this book share my opinion. Mom and Al adore the furry little nuisances. Fortunately, Dad doesn't like them either. Otherwise the house would be crawling with the devious little furballs.

Because, I begin to write, the cat has already-

"Ed! Time for dinner, honey!" Mom yells.

I sigh. Now I'm going to have to talk about my day and that's something I'd like to avoid. Possibly forever. Mom will just tell me to think positive and she won't understand any of it. She never does. She'd probably even agree Ms. Douglas's suggestion that I stay in Grand's class.

Why can't they understand that I'm terrified of public speaking and Grand only makes it worse? They seem to think that by forcing me speak in public is going desensitize me or something. It doesn't work! I _know_ I'm going to screw up and block on some word. It's not possible to construct a speech free of all s, t, st, f, and l sounds. I've tried. Public speaking is torture for me, so why won't Mom just let me avoid it?

"ED!"

I swallow the lump in the back of my throat and force a smile. Sure, it's not going to disguise the fact that I'm miserable, but it's better than blatantly advertising it. With any luck they'll just think it's because of my presentation and won't pry any further

Wouldn't that be nice.

"Coming!" I yell before trudging down the stairs. It's a warm sort of dark in the stairwell. Light from the kitchen peeks through the lower railings. The wood of the stairs is striped like a tiger. If I had an artistic ability I'd draw or paint it. Sadly, I lack that as well as the ability to speak like a normal human. I can write though.

Not that that ever helped me, especially in Humanities when the speech was worth more than the essay.

I step down on the third to last stair before the landing and the nightlight flickers on. It's one of the uglier ones; antiqued by the fads Glade ™ created, with their fancy nightlights that smell of fake flowers and French perfume. The phone rings and I freeze. Winry wouldn't call and yell at me, would she?

"Mom, it's for you!" Al says. I let out a sigh of relief. I'm safe. At least for now. Normally Winry wouldn't call, mainly because phone conversations are not my strong point. However, she's been known to make exceptions when she's irritated enough. I sigh, cross my fingers that she _doesn't _call, and hurry down the last flight of stairs into the kitchen.

There, Dad's busy trying to find matching forks, or at least, non-plastic forks. He's not exactly known for his organizational skills. Mom never has time to do stuff like organize cutlery. Al tries to organize the kitchen, but he's no match for the chaos.

I don't help him. Mainly, because I've been banned from the kitchen ever since 3rd grade, which was when I still considered it to be my private chemistry lab. The ban has something to do with the fact that it took four years to get the skillet off the ceiling. Though it didn't come off so much as nearly brain Russell.

"Ed, take some of the plates over," Al says as he walks past me. He's carrying two plates with pot pies on them. I sigh. At least I can say what we're having for dinner tonight. I take the last two plates over to the table and sit down. Dad admits defeat and grabs the last clean forks, all of which are different styles. Dad sits down and we wait for Mom to finish her phone call. Words like 'flight delay' and 'hail storm' drift over.

So much for her leaving at noon tomorrow. Whenever those words are mentioned Al, Dad and I know that Mom's not leaving at a normal time. Words like 'flight delay', 'baggage lines', and 'cancelled' normally mean she leaves at 1 am and criss-crosses the entire country to get the her destination three days in advance.

"That was Erica from the company and said the company wants me to be there by three o'clock instead of seven," Mom says, sitting down with a sigh. "And because of the time it takes with all the security and flight delays, I'm going to have leave Friday morning."

"How early?" Dad asks, looking nervous. Al sighs. I slouched down in my chair. Greatly, now in addition to everything else that's gone wrong Dad's going to have to get us up. As if that will ever happen. He's the definition of night owl. He'd stay up till three am if he could. I don't even know what he does that keeps him up that late. He claims that it's work, but I'm pretty sure he's just looking for really obscure bands that nobody knows about.

"About 5:30. I'll wake you up at 3:30 then. Okay?" Mom says, smiling brightly. Dad cringes.

"Why are you leaving so early?" Al asks. I stare at my pot pie before breaking it open. The yellow cheesy filling spreads out over my plate and I take a bite. It burns my tongue and the cheese doesn't taste like really cheese; and yet it's good, in the way that only fake unhealthy things are good. I take a drink of water.

"Because my first flight got rescheduled to a later time and that wouldn't work, so now I'm flying to the Ohio airport and taking a connecting flight to Austin," Mom says, waving her fork around. The piece of chicken on it comes dangerously close to flying off and landing on the floor.

"That doesn't sound so bad," Al says, taking a dainty bite of his pie. Dad says nothing. He can't. His mouth's too full.

"Well, aside from the fact that there's a two hour gap in between the flights," Mom says, before taking a bite. She waits until she's finished chewing before adding, "But I have full confidence in baggage and security's ability to waste time. Honestly, do I look like a terrorist?" She points to herself with her fork.

No one says anything.

"Exactly, but I still have to take off my shoes and go through the whole thing every time. And it's gotten to the point where security recognizes me," Mom says, waving her fork around again.

"So, Al," she rounds on him. "How was your day?"

"Great! I went to Photography Club," Al says, smiling brightly. I stare at the congealed artificially yellow cheese sauce on my plate. I'm not part of any clubs. Mostly because none of my friends go to any of them. Why don't I go alone? Well that would involve introducing myself. Which always goes something like this: 'Hi, my name is Edward Elllllric, please ignore the st-ssst-sstutter.' I like to avoid saying that.

"What do they do in that club?" Dad asks through the pot pie. He was never into clubs when he was in high school. Instead he played football, badly.

"Well, this meeting we just talked about stuff, like exposure and lighting and stuff," Al says brightly. I can't see how he finds this interesting. Sure, he has a digital camera, but Photography Club? Everyone knows that's just an extension of the class.

Al talks more about the details of how flash and f-stop and exposure all relate to each other. I tune it out and eat my pot pie. I hope Winry doesn't call tonight. Maybe she'll let me explain, or at least apologize to Ling about it. But Winry's never been particularly considerate, at least not when she's mad about something.

"Oh Ed, how did your speech go?" Mom asks, looking at me.

Fine.

Can't say fine.

Alright.

Damn l.

Umm. It went okay.

That works.

"It went okay," I mutter and take another bite of congealed cheese sauce and crust.

"Do you know how you did on it?" Mom asks, genuinely interested.

F.

Can't tell her that. She'll want to know why. And fleeing the room because I think I'm hyperventilating isn't a good enough excuse. Nothing is.

"I don't know."

It's not a lie. I don't know if Grand's given me an F or a zero.

Dad gives me a look. Right, he knows.

He knows that Envy touched your ass and you--

I blush. My ears burn.

"Ed, are you okay?" Mom asks, "You don't have a fever do you?"

I shake my head.

I'm not sick. Just gay for Envy. Well, bi. Even then, it's more like I'm un-straight for Envy.

That doesn't even make sense.

Besides, it's not like it matters. Winry's mad at me and Ling probably hates me. And I deserve it all.

"You sure?" Mom asks again, peering at me. I duck my head. She can't read my mind like Russell made me believe in kindergarten. "Why don't you go get some rest? You might feel better then."

I shrug.

I'll just do homework anyway.

God, I'm so lame.

_finis_

Review Template:

Mechanical Aspects (1-10, 10 being the highest):

Areas that the Writer did extremely well at:

Areas that need work:

Chapter Question: Were the 3 AIM conversations too much?

Bonus Question: Why is it that a cat that accidentally falls from the top of a 50 story building hits a safety net below no faster than if it fell from the twentieth story?

(answer will be posted with the next chapter)

And because I took a very long time in posting this, I over you this option. You can now have Ed reply to your review (which means me, but in character as Ed). All you have to do is indicate what part of the review you want Ed to respond to. Something like QUESTIONS FOR ED works. And if you'd feel weird asking a strange person slightly personal questions, just pretend he's posted a few LJ entries and you're commenting on them or something.

Depending on the popularity of this … experiment, I'll consider adding more characters. Ed's the only one I have "down" right now, but characters I'd consider for the next one would be Sloth, Winry, and Envy. However, Sloth's inscrutability is rather vital to the PLOT, so…

Review. It makes me happy.


	4. Chapter 4

Look! I published a fourth chapter. I deserve applause (or something).

The reason it took so long was because I wanted to publish it with chapter five. But life got in the way. I've tried to write more description, but I think you'd better specify what type of description. Or since I've set this in my house and school, I could just take pictures or something.

If I do not update between now and Christmas consider this your present.

But here you go, chunkies!

Speech Class is cancelled.

I stare up at the whiteboard in Grand's classroom where Grand is writing something. I can hear the green marker squeak as he moves it across the board. I hope he's just writing notes and not something more sinister. He finishes up with whatever it is and walks over to sit at his desk.

The writing on the board isn't notes, I realize slowly. It's a list of people who haven't presented yet. My name's at the top. I blink and look again, hoping that it's a trick of the light or something. The words EDWARD ELRIC don't vanish. The pale green death sentence remains intact.

That can't be right, I think frantically. I've already gone. I went yesterday. I blew it yesterday and Grand doesn't believe in second chances. I glance around the room, looking for some sort of support. There's nothing. No one's even protesting how unfair my second chance is.

I look over at Grand's desk. He's glaring at me and motioning for me to start. This can't be happening, I think, and frantically glance over at Ling's desk. He's there, but he pretends he doesn't see me.

Oh, come on Ling, I think at him. It was just a joke. I was just playing around. I didn't mean to hurt you.

I walk up to the front of the class. They all look at me, interested; interested like people are interested in animals at the zoo, not like they actually want to hear what I say. A lump forms in the back of my throat. I swallow, but it doesn't help.

I stare back at them. I'm not a circus act! I want to scream at them. But it wouldn't do any good. They'd just laugh harder.

"A crime against—"

"Start from where you left off, Elllric," Grand drawls with a demonic smirk, purposely drawing out the 'l' sound. I gulp. It's not a second chance after all. It's merely a clever way of prolonging my torment. The lump in my throat suddenly feels like a rock.

"The excuse—"

"The exact point, which is, I believe, 'superiors'."

I cringe and shrink into myself. I hate this. He's never gone this far before. It's like he's punishing me for trying to escape his class. It's not my fault! I want to scream. I can't help it! I don't try to do this!

"Sss-sssu-ssss-ss—"

The word catches in my throat and I block. It feels like there's some in my throat that's keeping the word locked inside. My chest heaves as I try to force the word out. It's useless. I can't even breathe. My jaw keeps moving, and my tongue feels like lead. I feel nauseous and want to vomit the word up, but I can't. I curl my shoulders as my stomach tries to come up through my gaping mouth.

I can't get anything out. Not even a whisper. The world feels distant. My heart beats wildly and it's the only thing I hear. Hot tears are streaming down my face and I feel like I'm drowning.

I take a gasping breath and everything snaps into focus. The sounds rush back it, like the ocean after an earthquake. Everyone laughing at me and Grand looks pleased. He's certainly not stopping them.

I choke.

I fight for air as tears run down my face, distorting the scene of everyone laughing at me.

Blackness begins to appear at the edges of my vision.

I don't care.

I wait to pass out, or faint, or die.

I welcome the dark.

The noise of the classroom fades away and I'm somewhere quiet, soft, and cool. I open my eyes (though I don't remember closing them) and see pale arms wrapped around me. Everything else is green.

A quiet humming fills the air and I feel the vibrations in the chest of whoever's holding me. I smile and close my eyes again. The person rests their head on my shoulder and I feel their breath on my neck. A shiver runs through my whole body and I arch my neck into the sensation.

The person chuckles and nuzzles my neck. I melt. Heat runs through my body to pool below my stomach. I mewl and the pale person smiles against my neck.

"You're perfect," a light tenor voice whispers in my ear. I'm not sure if it's male or female or even if it matters. The sound is achingly beautiful, like the frost left on windows in winter. I stop breathing, I don't want to destroy it. No one's ever told me that before.

"Breathe, dear one," the voice whispers again and now I'm sure it's male. How can it be anything else? And then it—_he_ kisses my neck and lightly bites it. White sparks explode behind my eyes and I'm sure I cry out. And now he's licking and kissing his way down, across my jaw bone. Everything he's doing feels delicious and I arch up, exposing my throat to him and his masterful mouth.

His only reaction to my blatant invitation is to hold me tighter. Other than that he seems content to nibble and lick one side of my neck only. I sigh in frustration.

He pulls back suddenly and I turn my head to face him, eyes opening along the way. I stare at him. He's pale, with dark eyes and hair. He looks so familiar it hurts. I can practically feel my mind racing to match a name to his beautiful face. The answer is within inches when—

"ED WAKE UP!"

The dreams fades, the features of his face blur, I forget the color of his eyes—wait, did I ever know it? They were dark, or was that just the shadows? God, he was beautiful though.

"ED, IT'S SEVEN THIRTY!"

I sit straight up. I'm going to be late.

The dreams slips away faster. I want to hold on to it but—

"ARE YOU EVEN UP?" Dad yells, poking his head into my room. His hair, normally kept in freakishly neat ponytail, is in complete disarray. Instead of having a few fly away strands, Dad's entire mane seems bent on taking flight. His glasses are hanging off his left ear, he's missed the first button hole on his shirt, and he's knotted his tie backward. Dad looks like a deranged hippy. The dream flees.

I glare at him. He's wearing that horrible tie again. I think it's the most hideous tie in the world. It's yellow, but you wouldn't know that unless you looked at it for a long time. This is because it's mainly covered in dots and leopard-like spots. The majority of the spots are what Al calls bright dark blue, but PrismaColor refers to it as PC902 or ultramarine. However, there's a couple bright purple spots, as well as some vomit-Avocado colored splotches.

What makes the tie so ugly is the bright red dots. They're not the nice sports-car red either. Nor are they cherry red, or fire-engine red. They're not even the slightly nauseating shape of Gwen Stefani's lipstick. No. They're the inherently evil red that Microsoft Word uses to point out alleged spelling errors, like my last name.

"Yes," I say through gritted teeth. A vein in Dad's forehead throbs dangerously.

"We're out of bread," Dad informs me. Al's shouts filter up from the kitchen. Something about the nuloaf (whatever that is) being frozen to the saw lid.

"And your point is?" I say, glaring at him. He glares back, manically, and his eyebrow twitches. I fight back the urge to laugh hysterically. I'm not suicidal.

"You're going to have to have cereal because we're out of instant oatmeal too," Dad says and shuts the door sharply.

I lay back down with a _whump!_ I hate cereal, not only does it closely resemble cardboard, but it requires _milk_. And unlike instant oatmeal, water cannot be used instead of milk.

"SHUT UP AL, OF COURSE IT'S MICROWAVE SAFE!" Dad yells from the kitchen. Pause. Then:

"I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING, OKAY!"

I don't want to know. I don't smell anything burning and the smoke detectors aren't going off, but then again I don't think anyone changed the batteries last year. Chances are Dad's wrong, and the thing isn't microwave safe.

I drag myself out of bed and head over to the dresser to hunt for a clean shirt. I pull out a black one with gray stripes and some strange silver design that, according to Russell, is some demonic symbol. I highly doubt it that. There's no way a clothing company would put something like that on their shirts. Russell likes argues that the company may not be aware of what the symbol really means. I normally just roll my eyes at this point, because Russell's inevitably gone off on some rant about various horror movies and vampire shows and how vampires are obviously much cooler than werewolves.

I pull on the shirt and some black leather pants that do not make me look like I "just walked off of the Underworld set." Russell's just far too obsessed with vampires for his own good. I think he's one of the few males who willingly admit to owning all of the Anne Rice novels. I blame Winry for this.

You see, Russell was fine when he could enjoy Halloween (and the preceding weeks) dressed as various vampires from novels and movie. Unfortunately, this ended around eighth grade, when Winry started dressing up as his female counterpart. Russell claims that he stopped because he was too old for it, but I've seen the way he looks at those vampire costumes in the mall. He practically drools over them.

"ED, I FOUND BREAD! BUT IT WAS FROZEN! IT'S IN THE MICROWA—OH CRAP! WHY'S IT ON FIRE?!" Dad shouts from down stairs. My eyes widen and I grab at a random pair of sneakers. I hurriedly slip them on and begin shoving homework and textbooks into my pack, before sprinting down the stairs. Mom's going to kill us if we set the house on fire.

I skid to a stop and stare at the scene in front of me. It's hard not to. Dad's hopping around with the burning bag of bread in his hands with mismatched oven mitts, yelling "PUT IT OUT! PUT IT OUT!" Al's holding the spray nozzle for the sink looking dubiously at Dad.

"DON'T JUST STAND THERE!" Dad yells as one of the oven mitts catch fire. Al turns faucet's joystick up and to the right. He sprays Dad with a blast of near-freezing water. Dad yelps again and jumps. His head hits the pot-rack and he skitters away from that. Al continues to spray him with water.

"Oh, hi Ed," Dad says when he sees me. "Glad to see—WOULD YOU TURN THAT BLASTED THING OFF AL—you're finally up. Thank you."

Al's smirking in a self-satisfied way. I'm pretty sure he meant to use the cold water instead of the hot. Come to think of it, he probably _was_ aiming for Dad's face. I think it's his way of protesting the unfair treatment he as forced to endure. Al doesn't like being ordered to do things against his better judgment. Like putting bread in the microwave when the twister on it is metal coated with paper.

"Here's your bread, Ed," Dad says smiling. I eye it suspiciously and poke at it. It's slightly soggy, but there's no melted plastic on it. Apparently the twister caught fire before the plastic could melt.

"It's not poisoned if that's what you're wondering about," Dad says viciously.

"I think he's checking for bits of plastic," Al says sweetly. Dad glares at him. Al gives him an infuriatingly innocent look. Dad narrows his eyes and points two fingers at his eyes and then Al's. He does this several times before they engage in a staring contest.

I nervously edge around Dad to the toaster. When he's in one of these moods it's best not to set him off. He's not hysterical, but it's close. Dormant-bipolar is a pretty good description. Except instead of switching between elated and depressed, Dad's hovering between manic laughter and mad-axe-murderer.

Dad blinks first.

Al smirks triumphantly.

"I demand a rematch!" Dad yells.

"To what?" Al innocently inquires. I scuttle past them to the refrigerator and grab the jam and butter.

"Nothing," Dad mutters, staring into his coffee. "Nothing at all."

I sigh as I spread the jam on to my toast. Fortunately, Dad only gets like this when he's stressed and suffering from lack of sleep.

"Dad, you're driving us to school right?" Al asks. Dad nods and waits for the shoe to drop. "Well, school starts in 15 minutes and it normally takes Mom about 20 to—"

"I'M NOT MOM!" Dad yells and bolts for the car. Al smiles brightly. I can tell he's enjoying himself. It's not often he gets to run circles around Dad.

"How are you Ed?" Al asks, utterly cheerful.

"Meh," I mutter through the toast. Al shots me a dirty look. He's always been big on manners for some reason. No one can understand how it happened; neither of our parents is big on that kind of stuff.

Dad storms back into the house, breathing viciously.

"We're taking the Corvette," Dad says, glaring at Al, daring him to object. Al wisely says nothing. I muffle a groan. The Corvette is not what you think it is. It is not a sleek, new, red Corvette. It is not a lovingly restored classic model either. It's not even particularly shiny.

No.

It's a beat-up, dented, duct-taped, slightly smushed Corvette, that's only resemblance to the sports car dream (red, fast, and shiny) is a messy coat of red primer. Aside from that, it's the dorkiest Corvette ever made. It also happens to be one of the first Corvettes ever made. 1953, as Dad will tell anyone within a five foot radius of the thing.

Dad doesn't even own the car. It's Grandpa's, Dad's just "refurbishing" it. Of course, he's been "refurbishing" it for over 20 years. Not that there's been any progress. In fact, the car seems to be deteriorating.

It also only seats two.

"But—"

"IN!" Dad shouts, ignoring Al's protest. Al shuffles towards the door.

"Um," I interject. Dad turns around to look at me so fast, I'm surprised he doesn't get whiplash. "We need money."

"For wha—oh, right, lunch," Dad mutters. He searches his pockets for spare change. "Oh, just go get in the car. And keep Al there too. Don't let him escape."

I nod. Al's been known to do anything to avoid riding in the Corvette. Especially when Dad thinks he has less than 10 minutes to get us to school. Dad's never figured out that our school's clocks are about five minutes behind regular time. That and the clock in our kitchen is about five minutes ahead of normal time. Now, none of this would be a problem, if Dad didn't irritate Al into passive non-cooperativeness within five minutes of entering the kitchen.

I open the door to the garage and almost run into a guilty looking Al. His brown eyes dart side to side, before he dives down and to the side, hoping to escape into the house. I drop my backpack on him.

"Ed," he moans. "Please?"

I refuse to make eye contact. He'll just use that puppy-dog face to distract me before kneeing me in the groin to "immobilize" me. I take the backpack off him and sit on him before he can start struggling.

"No," I reply and expertly twist both his arms behind his back so he can't claw me. He's really a dirty fighter. He claws, kicks, pulls hair, and bites. Winry doesn't even fight like that. He'd be teased about it, aside from the fact that he doesn't lose. The most even I can hope for is a stalemate. Fortunately, Al's not a violent person, so he only fights defensively and he normally runs off given the chance. Unfortunately, he only reacts this way because of one of two things. Either we're trying to force him into the Corvette or he's on a sugar high.

"Ow! Ed you're hurting me," Al complains. I have him squashed up against the car door, one hand on his wrists as I shove my backpack into the car. Now comes the tricky part. Opening the door and getting Al in the car.

"Ed! That's my hair! That's not fair!" Al whines when I grab his hair. He's extremely tender headed.

"If you would just cooperate and get in the car, we wouldn't have this problem," I mutter through gritted teeth. Al shut ups. But I'm not fooled. I know from past experience that he's either plotting something or trying to lull me into a false sense of security.

I suddenly wrench the car door open, shove Al inside, and sit on him before he can so much as flail a limb.

"Ed," he whines, "You're being mean."

I blow a raspberry at him. It's his own fault for not staying in the car like a normal person.

"I found a twenty," Dad says slamming the door behind him with unnecessary force. He flicks a button and the garage door opens. Dad jumps into the Corvette without bothering with the door. The seat groans at the sudden weight and Dad gives in a surreptitious kick. He turns on the engine, which reluctantly starts up after a few more kicks. Al moans pathetically from underneath me.

"I think you can get off him now," Dad says letting out the brake.

"I don't think ss-sss-sso," I stutter.

"You're probably right," Dad admits. "Do you think he'll try to escape once the car's moving?"

"I'm right here!" Al yells.

"Probably not, but I'm going t-to wait until we're out of the neighborhood, just in case," I say as Al begins to thrash.

Dad thrusts the gear stick into first and hits the gas pedal. We fly out of the neighborhood like a bullet. The Corvette rattles and vibrates as if it's about to fall to pieces. Al ceases all struggling and I scoot over. He glares at me but doesn't shove me. He's never done that. Not since the time when the door wasn't locked and it flew open and nearly took out the neighbors' dog. The dog moved out of the way. But the hydrangea bush wasn't so lucky.

"Why does this clock say it's 7:50?" Dad asks pointing to the digital watch he duct taped to the dashboard after the original gave out.

"The kitchen clock is a couple minutes ahead," I explain.

"It's got to be more than a couple minutes, at least five," he mutters before accelerating around the minivan. I bite my lip and look down. I _know_ it's five minutes ahead. But 'a couple' is easier to say than 'five'.

Al squeezes my shoulder. I look up and he's smiling at me. I smile in return and lean my head against his shoulder. Sometimes it's nice just to be understood. I stare out the windshield and realize that the light's red, yet Dad's not showing any signs of slowing down.

"DAD THAT'S A RED LLLLLLLIGHT!" I yell. He ignores me.

"DAD! THAT'S AN OLD LLLLLLADY YOU'RE GOING tt-tt-TO HIT!"

Dad slams on the brakes and we (narrowly) avoid skidding into the frightened old lady in the walker. Who flips Dad off.

Al snickers.

A vein throbs in Dad's temple.

A couple of college students pull up in a Hummer. They rev the engine. Al moans quietly. Normally, Dad would be able to quell his inner teenager and would refrain from starting an impromptu drag race. However the combined lacks of coffee, sleep, and patience have eroded his self-control and thus, Dad revs the engine. They rev theirs louder. Dad glances at the other stoplight. It's turned yellow. He shoves the gear stick forward and floors it.

The Corvette is catapulted forward.

Dad laughs manically as he watches the looks of shock on the college kids' faces. He pulls the car into second and we leap forward again. But the Hummer's making up the lost ground fast. Dad frowns and shoves the Corvette into third and pushes the gas pedal to the floor. Al and I stare in horror at the speedometer. We're going already ten miles over the speed limit and Dad's still accelerating.

The stoplight up ahead turns yellow.

"Dad," Al says in a panicky voice.

"There aren't any cops around. There never are," Dad snaps back. Al whimpers.

"Don't worry Al, Dad's installed airbags," I say.

"What! I—"

I glare at him.

"I mean, yes of course I installed the airbags," Dad says, and wrenches the gear stick down and over, putting it in neutral. The car lurches to a sudden halt. We're lucky; there's no one ahead of us. Not so for the Hummer-people. Their lane has two cars in it already by the time the driver slams on the brakes.

Dad smirks and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'amateurs'. Al lets out a piteous moan.

"Al, it's okay, you're not going t-tt-to die," I stammer. Al ignores me. Then we're all thrown back against the seats as Dad takes off again.

--Line--

Al's better by the time we get to school. That or he's in shock. Either way, he's quit whimpering.

"Keep the change," Dad says when he hands me the twenty. I pocket the money. He hasn't demanded change back since the time when I refused to restrain Al. We eventually did get to school, but it took over two hours and Al threw up in the car.

"Bye!" Dad shouts. Al and I just stare, stunned, as Dad reverses, nearly hits a black Mustang, and speeds off. The occupants of the Mustang are equally stunned. I gape as one of the passengers vaults over the side of the car.

It's Envy.

My heart stops.

I don't breathe.

He's opens the door for Sloth with a flourish and I breathe again. My heart, as if trying to make up for lost time, beats rapidly. He's dressed completely differently. Instead of the usual skort and impossibly tight shirt, he's wearing black dress pants of some silk-like material. His shirt's a dark charcoal grey, with something glittery woven into it. The cuffs of the shirt are unbuttoned and Envy hasn't bothered to tuck the shirt in either. The last buttons on the collar are open and he's wearing that red tie like a scarf. The shirt's rumpled as well, but it doesn't look like he's slept in it.

No. Instead of looking sloppy, Envy looks like he's just had incredibly good sex with someone and doesn't care who notices. My face heats up at that thought. The thought that he doesn't care if anyone knows what he's done, that is, because I'm not thinking about who Envy may or may not be having mad passionate sex with. Nor am I jealous of this theoretical person, because that would imply that I have urges. And I don't!

Then, as he's helping Sloth out of the car, he turns and looks at me. Our eyes meet. And I remember.

_Pale arms wrapped around me._ The dream!_ Every thing else is green. _No. No, no, no._ "You're perfect," he whispers, lips brushing against my ear._ Nonononono._ His breath on my neck, then his lips, then tongue, then looking into the almost familiar face of—_ENVY?!

No. This can't be right, I think panicky, I'm asexual. These things don't—can't happen to me. Sloth waves at me cheerfully, completely obvious to both my inner turmoil and the driver's wish to pull forward. She looks oddly Victorian today, in her black silk trench coat, complete with silver buttons and large silver bow. Today, the most normal part of her outfit is the black jeans and dark grey turtle neck. Envy looks like he's been hit across the forehead with a two-by-four. Sloth elbows him in the ribs and he turns slightly pink and waves at me.

I smile and nod. Together, the Peccato twins look like teenage vampires or, as someone uninfluenced by Russell's vampirical mania might say, Gothic Victorian with modern influences.

Envy turns away quickly and starts chatting to Sloth. His ears are bright pink. He's not blushing, I think to myself, they're just cold from riding in a convertible. My ears would be freezing too, if I hadn't made sure my pony tail covered them. Besides, why would Envy blush?

"Come on, Ed," Al says, "We're going to be late."

I nod and follow him upstairs. We don't normally walk together. Mainly because I ride with Ling or walk to school. Al likes to be dropped off by Mom or he'll bike to school with Fletcher sometimes. He's one of those insane people who like to come to school early.

There aren't very many people in the halls. I glance at my watch. It's almost 8 o'clock.

Shit.

I wave good-bye to Al and dash off to Math class. Grumman's been known to lock his doors or lurk behind the open door, which he enjoys slamming in late students faces. Aside from his love of practical jokes and slightly sadistic sense of humor, Mr. Grumman's one of the best math teachers. Unfortunately, he's also one of the sanest.

I slide into my seat, just as the bell rings. I hastily pull out my pencil and calculator and start on the warm-up written on the board in Grumman's spiky handwriting.

LogM 2.74 LogN 5.32 LogK8.43 (All logs are base 6)

Expand:

2logM – logN + logK

Simplify:

LogM (LogK/logN2)

Both problems are fairly simple, as long as you know the rules for logarithms. Normally, I'd finish first at my table and help the other three people. But Grumman decided to put me at the table with three Asian girls. Well, technically, Katerine's Russian, but she looks Asian and her grandfather's from Korea. Ketu's dad's Tibetan and her mom's Chinese, and both Molly's parents are from Thailand. One would think that they wouldn't be able to leave me out of entire conversations by talking fast in some Asian language since all they come from different places.

Wrong.

I'm pretty sure they aren't just saying random words to make me paranoid. There might be one language that all of them speak. (Though I'm positive Katerine was speaking Russian yesterday.) The other alternative is that they're all speaking extremely fast and accented English and I can't understand them because I'm American.

"Ooh," Katerine says looking at my paper worriedly, "I think that's wrong."

"Aye," Ketu chimes in. "That's not what I got."

"Isn't it logN raised to the _third_ power?" Molly asks. Ketu and Katerine nod. I look over at the board, just to make sure they aren't trying to trick me. I squint. It _is _a three. I resist the urge to bang my head against the table. It's not fair.

"Does anyone have an answer for the first problem?" Grumman asks walking around the room.

Seth Coachran nearly leaps out of his seat.

"Oh! Bulletin!" he yells. Grumman shoots him a glare.

"Seth! You get to solve it on the board," Grumman says, clearly on the verge of cackling.

"But—"

"After I read the bulletin," Grumman says with a sigh. He walks over to his extremely messy desk and whisks a bright green paper off the top of a stack.

"The GSA meets for the first time—_again—_in F2, _extreme _peer mediation club meets in 126A and they have pizza. You know," Mr. Grumman says, turning to address the class. "I've never gotten what makes Extreme Peer Mediation so extreme. Are they all running around on skate boards or something?"

Few people laugh. A few giggle nervously, while the rest of the class tries in vain to figure out if he's being serious or not.

"You know, like those z-games or whatever you lazy, good for nothing teenagers call them."

No one gets it.

"Fine, Photography Club meets—

"Wasn't that yesterday?" Seth asks. Grumman looks at the green paper again.

"Yes it was. The Fang shoe-ii—"

"Fuh-ng shway," Ketu corrects swiftly. Mr. Grumman gives her a dirty look.

"The FUHn-g Schway Club meets in the choir room and Ms. Armstrong would appreciate it if they would quit rearranging the furniture.

"Now, Seth, go do the first problem on the board," Grumman says handing Seth a piece of chalk.

"Okay," Seth says with an audible gulp.

--line--

After Seth finishes solving both problems on the board, Mr. Grumman hands out a review sheet and says that it, and all the homework for the unit, is due on the day of the test which happens to be some time next week.

I work to the end of the period. I would have finished earlier, except Ketu, who sits next to me, started correcting my answers and I had to redo half a page. This is the most annoying part of math. I'm constantly corrected by Asian girls and whenever I complain about it, Winry goes a feministic rant about how women are just as good at math and science and Ling tells me that I'm just jealous of the inherit sexiness of Asians in general and him in particular. Which is not true, because I don't have urges.

Envy was naked in that dream.

I let out a growl of frustration. Molly looks a me funny before whispering something in Ketu's ear. They both giggle as the bell rings. I hastily shove my calculator and review sheet in to my backpack and pocket the pencil.

--line--

The stairs are completely packed with people coming up and going down. It's completely random and people only get out of the way if someone heavy starts to fall. No one's had the nerve to direct traffic though. The last person who tried spent a few days in the hospital after someone tossed him over the edge and into a group of freshmen. The poor kid wasn't seriously injured, mainly due to the fact that the freshmen didn't scatter.

I pass Winry in the halls as she heads to her math class. I wave at her, she ignores me and walks off.

Damn.

She's still mad about yesterday.

With that thought in my head, I walk across the lawn to the science wing. Sloth's outside talking with Envy, Roy, and a blonde girl in a plain black trench coat and bright red shirt. They all match. Sloth drifts away and heads towards the main building. Roy wraps his arm around the blonde girl and they head inside. Envy follows somewhat reluctantly.

I stare at the door they just entered. S2. Dr. Knox's room. Great. I have physics with Envy and his gang.

--line--

When I finally enter the classroom, I ignore Envy (who's waving and pointing to the seat that he just jerked out from under Roy) and sit as far away from Envy's lab station as possible. I end up next to a pretty dark-haired girl who introduces herself as Noah.

"Are you friends with him?" she asks, looking over at the lab table. Envy's sulking and glaring at Roy, who has reclaimed his seat.

"No," I say. And it's true. I'm not friends with Envy. Sure, he waves at me in the halls and he's nice to me, which is pretty unusual considering his reputation and my situation. We've spoken a few times. In freshmen year, I shared my umbrella with him while we were waiting to be picked up. We talked a bit then. Mainly about the weather (wet), why Sloth was here too (rehearsal for the school play), Wrath's sport (cheerleading and winter guard), and then my mom came.

When I opened the car door to get in, Mom asked me if I wanted to lend the umbrella to my "new friend." I remember glancing backed at Envy and thinking about how lost and alone he looked in the rain. His spiky hair was sticking to his clothes and he looked like he'd lost his only friend in the world. Which was strange, considering he'd been laughing about Wrath's first experience with the saber a minute ago.

I'm convinced that he was just sorry to see the umbrella leave. However, that didn't stop Mom from insisting that he missed me. Ha! Why would Envy miss me? If anything, he probably just missed my body heat.

Aside from that, there've only been a handful of times when we've actually talked. Yesterday was one of them.

"What about Envy?" Noah asks, shaking her head so that her bangs fall away from her face. Evidently she meant Roy, which is just as well because I'm not friends with him either.

"I'm not fff-ff-fff," I begin to say without thinking. I hit the 'f' and freeze up. Noah doesn't know I stutter. I tense up and try to hurry through the word. Which is exactly what I'm not supposed to do.

"Fffff—ff-ff—ff—"

I can't get the word out.

"Ff-ff-ff-f—"

Great. This is going to be so awkward. Unless I manage to choke on the word and die.

"Ed," Noah interrupts gently. She hesitantly places her hand on my arm and I shut up. "I know you probably hate being interrupted, but I just want to let you know that my best friend is a stutterer. So, you don't have to worry about scaring me off or embarrassing yourself in front of me, or anything like that. Just, no pressure."

I stare at her.

"Huh?" escapes my mouth. I'm dumbfounded. Noah, this dark haired girl dressed in shades of gray, knows a stutterer? She's smiling at me and I smile back weakly.

"Yeah, she was my first friend when I moved here," Noah says. I raise my eyebrows, curious. Noah continues easily.

"She was the only person who'd be friends with the new kid," Noah says looking down, a sad look passing across her face. She looks up and continues. "She didn't care about what everyone else thought and she'd sit with me when no one else would."

"What's your fff-fff—ff-ff-friend's name?"

Noah smiles mysteriously before saying:

"I can't tell you that."

"But—" I protest.

"No, she's extremely self-conscious about her stutter. You'd never know she had a stutter unless you got her really nervous or to talk on the phone," Noah tells me with another mysterious smile. "Besides, you'll find out who she is soon enough."

"How?" I demand.

Dr. Knox starts calling off names for roll.

"Julia Avert?"

"Here!"

Noah gives me a look that implies the answer should be obvious and I'd understand if I gave it a bit more thought. I want to stomp my foot in frustration. How am I supposed to figure out who this other stutterer is?

"Well, for one thing," Noah pauses dramatically. "You could wait until fifth period—"

"—Dodson?"

"Here!"

What? That can't be right. Unless she's been in my other Speech classes. But then why wouldn't Noah tell me her name?

"Since she's going to be in your Speech Class this year."

--line--

Mechanical Aspects (1-10, 10 being the highest):

Areas that the Writer did extremely well at:

Areas that need work:

Chapter Question: Was there enough description this time? Do you feel cheated considering that I've managed to write yet another chapter in which Envy only makes cameo appearances? Or does the dream count for anything? Oh, and does anyone want me to post sketches of the characters on my deviant art account? The sketches are mainly just of outfits and sometimes scenes from the chapter.

Oh, and if you haven't figured out who the other stutterer is by now, I'm laughing at you. And so are the people who've figured it out.


	5. Chapter 5

Well, this was going to be posted on Christmas, but that obviously didn't happen. I wrote most of this in one day and didn't want to post it without having it edited. Hence the delay.

Go and read Indigo's Ocean's Christmas story. That's the reason this chapter is done. And it's a pretty awesome story.

Oh and about the lab: The average ruler is 30 centimeters long. The person dropping the ruler is holding it at the top (zero cm). The person catching it has their fingers 2 cm away from bottom (30 cm) of the ruler.

Also, Ed and Envy's romantic relationship is often abbreviated as EdxEnvy. Or as Edvy. However, it can also be written as EdEn, or (without the capitals) Eden. So, Ed + Envy Eden. Eden paradise. Therefore, Ed/Envy is paradise.

And while I did dress up as Amy Lee for Halloween, I am not her and therefore, I do not own Evanescence or any of their songs.

Nor do I own the reaction-time lab. I lost it. But fortunately, was able to remember the premise clearly enough to write about it.

Begin Chapter Five:

After taking roll, Dr. Knox tells everyone to find a partner for the Reaction-Time Lab. I'm completely lost and look around for Noah, but she's already on the other side of the room with some senior guy. I sigh. I don't know anyone else in this class, unless you count Envy. I also don't know anything about this lab.

"If you can't find a partner queue up at the front," Dr. Knox says. The last straggling singles frantically pair up. Nobody wants to have the teacher find them a partner.

I reluctantly get up and walk over to Dr. Knox's desk. I hate being the one left out. Normally I pair off with Winry, Ling, or Russell, but none of them are in this class. Now, I'm going to have to introduce myself to another new person.

When I get to Dr. Knox's desk, Envy's already standing there, talking to him. I look back over at Envy's lab table. Everyone else is partnered up, more or less.

"No, Envy, you can't do it alone—"

"Um, Dr. Knox?"

"Ah, Mr. Elric?"

"I don't have a partner."

"Well, neither does Envy, so why do you two work together," Dr. Knox says. It seems like the obvious solution, but it still leaves me staring at Envy. He stares back, plucking at his slacks with his long-fingered hands. I can easily imagine those hands doing—no! I can't because I don't have urges! Dammit!

"So—"

"I'llll get the ruler and the paper," Envy and I say at the same time. Now, Envy's no longer staring at my face, instead he's spacing out in the direction of my shoes. My feet have begun to sweat under the sudden and unexpected scrutiny. Envy manages another nod before shuffling off to the lab table.

I grab the paper, ruler, and follow him. I stop when we reach the table. Roy's dropping the ruler and the blonde girl's catching it. The kid with glasses is reading the lab sheet while the messy-haired blonde guy is tapping the counter with the ruler.

"Come on Ed," Envy says, turning to look at me. I hesitate. He looks expectant and hopeful, and there's so much raw emotion in his purple eyes that I have to look away.

"I don't bite," Envy mutters dejectedly, before plunking himself down on a lab stool. I stand by him, shifting my weight uncomfortably. I want to say something, maybe apologize for ignoring him or not making eye contact.

Hey, Envy, I'm sorry I've been ignoring you and avoiding eye contact. You see, I don't normally have urges, sexual or otherwise, but last night I had this dream and you were there, naked.

Yeah, like that wouldn't be awkward or anything.

I quickly read the directions over Envy's shoulder. Apparently, one person's supposed to catch the ruler after the other person drops it. Then we're supposed to figure out the displacement and calculate the time it took us to react. That sounds easy, I think.

Envy whips his head around suddenly, and looks up at me. I stare at him and try to ignore the tingling sensation in the bottom of my stomach.

"Do you want to first or second?" Envy asks, then bites his lip. The tingling feeling suddenly moves lower and my face heats up yet again.

"I—"

I stop. I can't decide which to say. First or second, first or second. I can't say either word, but I don't want to stutter in front of Envy. I don't want to stutter at all.

"It doesn't matter," I finish lamely and shrug.

"I'll go first," Envy says, smiling suddenly. The corner's of my lips twitch in a feeble attempt at a smile.

"Okay," I say.

"Here, hold the ruler," Envy says, and turns to face me. "I think I've got my fingers at the right place, wanna check?"

"It's good," I say, just glancing at his hands. He has hot pink nail polish on.

"Now, distract me and drop it when I'm distracted," Envy says cheerfully.

Would you like to have sex with me?

I turn beet red. Envy looks puzzled and I hope I didn't just say that out loud. Envy frowns. Oh no! I did say it. I brace myself for his rejection. Have sex with _you_? Eww! Why would I—

"Why are you blushing? Was it something—oh!" Envy turns beet red as well. I frown in confusion. I guess I didn't proposition him audibly, so what's he talking about?

"I—uh, um, I didn't mean you had to—" he makes a vague gesture with his free hand. "I just meant—well, you know. I really didn't mean to imply that you should—um do _that_—just that you should distract me."

I turn a darker shade of red as understanding dawns on me. He thought I thought that he wanted me to touch him _intimately_ or something. Still, it's not as bad as asking him to have sex with me. That would be much more mortifying.

Envy shifts uncomfortably and I realize it's probably because I haven't said anything. I can't think of anything to say now. I don't want to try to distract him now or even try to say something. Given my brain's current location, it'll probably come out as a proposition.

I drop the ruler. Envy's eyes widen before he catches it. He looks at me, puzzled and almost hurt. He probably thinks I did it on purpose or something. But what can I say?

Sorry, Envy. You see the reason I was blushing is because I thought I'd asked you if you wanted to have sex with me, but turns out I was just thinking that. My bad.

Oh, he'd love _that_.

"Okay, let's do this two more times, then it's your turn," Envy says, rattling off the 't' words with an ease I envy.

"'Kay," I say and desperately try to come up with something to distract him with.

"What classes are you in this year?" I ask lamely, quickly weeding out the stutter-sounds.

"Um, I'm taking US History, this class, AP English, Pre-Calc, PE, and Italian at the college," Envy says, tucking his green hair behind his ear with his left hand. "What about you?"

I panic and drop the ruler.

Envy struggles to catch it in time.

"One more time," he says, scribbling down the result. I nod and hold the ruler out again. He holds his thumb and first finger exactly two centimeters away from the ruler. I can't help but stare at his bright pink nails. They're perfectly done and I wonder if Sloth did them for him.

"Why do you have pink nail polish on?" I ask.

"Oh, well, I had this bet with Wrath and he won, so he got to paint my nails fluorescent pink," Envy says, frowning.

"What was the bet over?" I ask, curious. With those stakes, there's no way I would bet Al, not matter what the odds were. He'd do anything to get a chance to paint my nails some girly color. He'd probably even cheat.

"Uh," Envy blushes. "Actually, it's rather—"

I drop the ruler again.

"My turn!" Envy crows happily and holds the ruler out to me.

I nod and position my fingers the required distance away from the bottom of the ruler.

"You know, I've always wondered why they don't just switch everything to the metric system," Envy says conversationally. I stare at him. What does this have to—right he's trying to distract me.

"I mean, we're like what, the only major country who still uses the English system? Even the English don't use it anymore. Not only is every other country in the world doing it, but the metric system makes a lot more sense. Everyone can count by tens, but 12? And what's up with a mile?" Envy pauses, before sighing gustily. "What do you think, Ed?"

"Umm," I stall for time, before carefully saying, "It's a good idea."

"Yeah," Envy says, without enthusiasm. He drops the ruler and I catch it at the 15 centimeter mark. That's a five centimeter displacement and Envy raises his eyebrows.

"That's impressive," he says leaning closer. I blush and duck my head as I record the score.

"Seriously, Ed," he whispers in my ear. I freeze. I can feel his breath, warm on my neck and his lips must be close. I bite my lower lip. He's just—He's not—He's just being Envy and he does this all the time to everyone. He's not seducing me, I'm just chronically understimulated. That's why I'm reacting this way. He doesn't think I'm special or anything.

"You're something special."

I gulp.

I don't even try to speak. At this point anything I say will come out as a stutter.

"Alright, Edward," Envy says, sounding irritated "You have two more chances to beat my cat-like reflexes."

I look at him. He's now smiling like his face is about to break. I stare at him confused. One second he's trying to seduce me (and succeeding for the most part), then he's irritated, and now he's smiling manically.

"Cat-lllllllllike reflexes?" I ask and the 'l' sound is longer than usual, like I'm shivering. Why can't it just be smooth? Why does it have to be quivering, and trembling, and unsure? Why is it always getting worse?

"Of course! I'm downright ninja-like sometimes," he says and leans back on the lab stool. It wobbles dangerously, but Envy doesn't seem to notice it. I reach forward but—

"Hey! No cheating, Edo," and he leans away from me. The lab stool hits the ground with a clatter and I'm at Envy's side with no memory of how I got there or why. My hands are in his hair and I search for blood or a bump or a—something. His hair is silky, despite its spiked look. It's cool as well, like hair is a couple hours after a shower. It slips through my fingers like rain.

Envy moans softly and squirms, closing his eyes tighter.

Right. I'm not supposed to be petting him like he's some sort of cat, not when he's hurt and can't—not ever. I'm not ever supposed to stroke Envy like a cat—is he purring?

He moans again and blinks open his purple, purple eyes. I forget to look away and fall into them. They're so deep and turbulent, like a washing machine on high, dark shapes swirling around and the soap foaming up around it all.

"You were trying to stop me, weren't you?" he asks, smiling. My heart begins to pound wildly in my chest and my throat closes in upon itself. He looks so—so—so—there aren't words for how he looks with his grey shirt, loose red tie, and guileless smile. Innocence, impish, and seductive, all in one. He doesn't look at all dangerous, and that unnerves me.

There's a reason people like, and generally, trust Sloth more. Even though she dresses just as differently as Envy and talks about the same strange things, there's something about Envy that makes most people nervous. It's a subtle difference and I think it's entirely in the attitude. Sloth and Envy can say the exact thing, make the same gestures and expressions, at the same time, and nine times out of ten, people find Envy to be more sinister and dangerous.

Yet, all this violent undercurrent seems to vanish when I'm around him. I find this lack of deathly intent exponentially more terrifying. Envy is unpredictable enough when he's being his insane violent self, however, when he's trying to be nice, he's absolutely unreadable by anyone, except maybe Sloth.

"I-uh-uh—yes," I breathe out. I can't speak to save my life, not now, not around him, not with one hand tangled in his hair and the other—and the other entwined in his. I blush at this realization.

"Envy? Are you going to get up or are you _happy_ to roll around on the floor all day?" Roy asks loudly.

I color and stammer madly as Envy glares at Roy.

"Shut up, Ro—"

"Here, lllllllet me help you up," I say, disentangling my hand from his hair. I don't let go of the other one.

The words die on his lips and he smiles. I can't help but smile back. He's so—he's just—he's Envy and I can't help it. I pull him up and he's surprisingly light for his size. We're standing almost nose to nose, like yesterday and he stares at me. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

I look away before I do something stupid, like kiss him. He turns away and picks up the stool.

"Two more times," he says, almost dejectedly before adding. "Hurry up would you."

I position my fingers and wait.

"What type of music do you listen to?"

"Err, I llllllllisten to a lllot of different groups," I say. I wish he would hurry up and drop it. Everyone else at the table is done and working on the write up.

"Evanescence?"

"Yeah," I say. They're one of the few decent bands that Russell's introduced me to. Most people are surprised when Russell declares his undying love for Amy Lee's voice (and everything else about her). He normally listens to stuff like the Low Millions and The Plain White T's. However, once you consider his vampire mania, the Evanescence obsession makes a lot more sense. How could Russell not love a band that's description (dark, epic, and depressing) matches his beloved vampire novels?

"What are your favorite songs on the new CD?" Envy says, excitedly.

Sweet Sacrifice. Lithium. Like You. Snow White Queen.

S, s, l, l, s.

Anyone else sense the unfairness here?

"They're all good," I say, with a mental wince. I hate sounding indecisive, but the only other alternative is stuttering. Sometimes I wonder is stuttering isn't better than being constantly misunderstood. But everyone stares when I stutter and some people even finish sentences for me. Besides, when I'm stuttering nobody listens to what I'm trying to say, they only hear the stutter.

"Don't you have a favorite?"

"Yeah, but—"

The traitorous words slip out. Envy snaps to attention.

"Then why won't you—"

He drops the ruler. I catch it and frown. Why did he drop it in the middle of his question? Did he not want to know the answer? Why?

"Everything coming along okay?" Dr. Knox asks. Ah, that's why. I nod and Envy mutters an affirmative. Dr. Knox wanders off to check on the poor geeky kid with glasses. He wasn't able to catch the 30 centimeter ruler, so he had to use a meter stick instead.

"But what?" Envy demands, as I scribble down my score.

"They're hard for me t-tt-tt-tto ss-ssis-sss-sss-ssay," I stutter and take a quick breath. I know he's aware of my stutter and has never been particularly bothered by it, but it's still embarrassing.

"Oh, um, right. Well, sorry about that," he says. I stare at him. He just apologized for inadvertently making me stutter. Nobody's ever done this. Most people wouldn't have noticed and would have demanded to know why I couldn't say the names of the songs. Mom would have pressed me to say the names. Dad would have just assumed it was too hard for me to decide or something. Al would have listened patiently while I told him about the songs.

"Last time, 'kay?" Envy says, holding out the ruler.

And suddenly I want to tell him that I love the sound of Lithium, that Snow White Queen is as beautiful as it is creepy, that Lacrymosa is foreign, sad, and lovely, and Sweet Sacrifice is disturbing but I find myself humming it at the oddest times.

Like You is my favorite.

I nod.

"So, it's—"

"I lllllove Lll-llllllye-llllike" I pause for breathe "You," I finish softly. Envy hasn't taken his eyes off me. He looks like he can't believe his ears. I smile shyly.

"I—I do too," he says, an elated grin forming on his lips. He looks absolutely ecstatic.

"It's my ff-ff-fff-ffff—"

I can't get it out.

What made me think I could say it?

Why did I want to?

I'm just forcing air out.

"Ffff-ffff-ffay—ff-fay—fayv-rit," I breathe out and in. "Sss-ss-sss-ssuh-ssong on the CD."

"Yeah," Envy sounds disheartened, before continuing with an almost-forced brightness. "It reminds me of their first album. My favorite song's Good Enough, you know. It's so cheerful."

No it isn't. I think it's one of their creepiest songs. Not only is she unable to say no, but she doesn't want to. It's creepier than Haunted, more disturbing than Like You, where she wishes she was dead (and buried with her sister), and it's more tragic than Taking Over Me. In those songs, she's not completely hopeless. Her thoughts are still her own. Not so in Good Enough. She's helpless there, or as Russell calls it, 'in love.'

Envy drops the ruler.

I catch it at the 13 centimeter mark.

Envy grins. I glance away and record the final score. It's the first time he's beat me.

"So, time to work on the write up," Envy says, and pulls his stool closer. I tense up. He shouldn't be this close. He's make me nervous, every nerve in my body is vibrating like harp strings.

I glance over the instructions.

The calculations are simple enough. Since the ruler was dropped, the initial velocity is zero. The displacement is just how many centimeters it fell. So, when I caught it at the 13 centimeter mark, it fell seven centimeters. The acceleration is that of gravity or 9.81 m/s2.

"Which equation do we use?" Envy asks.

D ½ at2

The fifth equation.

Law of Falling Bodies.

T, f, l, f.

I hate my stutter.

I hate my _life_.

I point at the one on the board.

Envy nods and starts scribbling stuff down. The lead of his mechanical pencil breaks and he swears.

.05 m ½ (9.81) t2

.05 4.9 t2

Divide both sides by 4.9

.0102 t2

Take the square-root of both sides, and my reaction was .1009 seconds. Not bad.

"Wait, how'd you get that?" Envy asks, leaning over my shoulder. Wordlessly, I shove my paper at him. He stares at it for a few seconds before muttering thanks.

I finish calculating the two other trials and start working on the questions. I'm halfway through the third one when Envy speaks again.

"What'd you get for number two?"

I pass my paper towards him.

He's making me nervous. He's far too close, and too nice, his hair is touching my thigh and all I can think about is The Dream. I can't look at him or I'll get lost in those eyes and I know if I stare into them long enough I'll find myself kissing Envy and he'll freak out and he'll hate me and he'll—

"Why won't you talk to me?"

I look up, then away. There's too much raw emotion in those eyes for me to look at them. They're too intense and he's too close.

Envy bangs his fists on the table and the equipment rattles. A few people shoot Envy nasty looks, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Can't you at least look at me?!"

His normally smooth voice is raw and it cracks. He sounds like he's seconds away from tears. And it's my fault.

_You should at least consider others feelings, Ed. What you did was mean and cruel._

She's right.

Why can't I do anything right?

Why do I have to fail?

"I'm ss—"

Envy's eyes widen and his mouth makes an 'o' of understanding.

"Sss-ss-sssorry," I finally stutter out and look down.

"Hey, Edo." A hesitating hand is placed around my shoulder. "I'm sorry, I didn't meant to ma—"

I turn whip around to look at him and his hand drops away. He looks startled and confused.

"Why?" I ask. My mind is spinning. Why does he care so much? He barely knows me. We've never had many classes together and we rarely talk. I've been horrible to him today, so why is he being so nice?

Maybe he doesn't like hearing you stutter, a nasty voice whispers in my head.

But that can't be right. He's never appeared disgusted, though Sloth is a pretty good actor and Envy might've picked something up from her. Still, he never said anything about my stuttering before.

"Why what?" he asks, confused at my reaction.

Why are apologizing? Why are you sitting so close? Why are you being so nice? Why can't I stop thinking about you? Why are you so perfect? Why don't you hate me? Why do you even want to be around me?

"Why are you apologizing?" I ask. It's the least incriminating one.

Envy looks confounded.

"Umm."

"Okay, everyone's done with the calculations and working on the questions?" Dr. Knox asks loudly. The whole room mutters their assent. "Okay, good. I'm going to go over the results and explain the conclusion in a few minutes."

"Hey, Envy, I'm going to borrow this stool, kay?" Roy asks quickly. Envy mutters his consent and Roy whisks the stool out from under him.

"Roy, give me the stool back!" Envy hisses, standing up with his arms akimbo. I watch quietly. "You have your own."

"But Fuery didn't," the blonde girl says calmly and hands the stool across the table to the geeky kid with glasses.

"Where am I supposed to sit then?" Envy demands. I squirm on my stool. I have the stupid urge to offer him mine. Stupid, because then I wouldn't have a place to sit.

"Well, you could always sit on the floor—"

"What?! No! That's—"

"Or, you could sit in Ed's lap." Roy smirks and leans back on his stool. He seems extremely pleased with himself. I look over at Envy, expecting to see him ready to punch Roy or throw something. Instead, he looks like he's about to cry.

"Here, you can have mine, I'll go ss-ss-sssit ssss-sss-ssome-where else," I stammer and get up.

"NO!" Envy cries vehemently, lunges forward and grabs my wrist. Everyone freezes. Roy, the blonde girl, and the two other boys stare at us, startled at the speed and intensity of Envy's reaction. Even Envy looks taken aback by it, like he can't figure out how he got here or why he did it.

I can't either.

"No, don't go. We'll… uh… share or something. Just don't go. Please?" he asks, his voice less desperate than it was a moment before. I nod slowly. Envy's eyes lose their frightened, feral look and he loosens his grip on my wrist, bust doesn't let go.

"Look, why don't you and Ed just share the stool," the blonde girl says in a level, no nonsense tone.

"Excellent idea, love," Roy declares in syrupy tones. He kisses the girl's cheek (I guess she _is_ his girlfriend). "Brilliant as usual."

Roy's girlfriend allows herself a small smile and whispers something in his ear. I try not to gag. I can't stand couples being lovey-dovey. Winry says it's because I'm jealous and I need to get over it and just go kiss Sloth. Russell agrees with me. Ling accuses me of harboring feelings of inferiority (which isn't true) and Al mutters about my lack of appreciation for love and romance.

"Thanks, Riza," Envy mutters and turns to look at the lone stool. There's no way two people can sit on it comfortably, at least not side by side.

"Do you want to sit on top or—"

"Already deciding one positions, Envy you—"

"Shut up, Roy! You bas—"

"Hey, at least I'm not afraid t—"

"Roy," Riza says in a voice that brooks no argument, "Shut up."

Roy snaps his mouth shut with frightening speed.

"You two had better decide who tops whom. Dr. Knox looks like he's about to start lecturing," Riza says. Roy smothers snickers at the innocuous statement and Envy blushes wildly. Even his ears turn pink.

"What do you want, Envy?" I ask. He blinks, confused by the question's odd phrasing.

"Huh, what—oh! Umm, it doesn't matter. You choose," he says. He's caught on to my word-avoidance method. Nobody else notices, they just assume that I don't know the right word or don't know what I'm talking about. Envy's different, and I can't figure out why.

He's waiting for my answer and suddenly I grin. Impulsively I stand on tiptoe and whisper my answer in his ear.

"T-top," I murmur confidently and pull back. Envy stares at me.

"You sure?" he asks unsteadily.

"Yeah," I say and smile. He grins back and sits on the stool. He looks at me expectantly and I realize that's my cue to join him. Once I do, he wraps his arms around me. He touch is hesitant and careful, as if he's afraid I'll break or vanish. Odd. Normally Envy's perfectly comfortable invading other people's personal space. Why am I different?

I fidget as Dr. Knox walks to the front of the classroom. I can't find a place to put my hands—except, except on Envy's. It's the only comfortable solution, but I'm not like Sloth, or even Winry. I'm not bold enough and, besides, Envy's a guy. I twist my hands in my lap, before crossing them at the wrist.

"Ed, are you sure you're okay with this?" Envy whispers in my ear. Yes, I am more than okay with this, in fact, I find this to be a pleasant position, which could be improved upon only with the addition of a bed and the absence of everyone but us.

"I mean, I could sit on your lap if you want," Envy offers. "You don't have to try to make me happy, I'm fine." No, you're not. Besides, you didn't make me be the girl last year, you didn't laugh at me yesterday, and you're still being nice even after I've been a jerk.

"No, I'm okay," I say, as Dr. Knox starts to lecture about reaction times.

"Don't lie to make me feel better, chibi. Because it won't work," Envy hisses at me. I shiver and resist the urge to turn around and kiss him. Instead I place my hands over his. They're cold and I run my fingers over them.

"Really, Envy, I'm alright," I say, ignoring his sudden intake of air. Envy squirms a bit, before settling. He remains quiet for the rest of the class period, but the feel of his delirious grin on the back of my neck distracts me and I barely understand the point of the lecture.

When the bell rings, I quickly disentangle myself from Envy, mutter my thanks, and wave goodbye before scuttling off to English. With any luck, it'll be an Envy free class.

End Chapter Five.

Any glaring mechanical errors that I should be aware of?

Areas that the Writer did extremely well at:

Areas that need work:

Chapter Question: What'd you think of the Envy-Ed interaction?


	6. Chapter 6

I walk slowly through the hallway and into the small courtyard

So, the last time I updated was in January. First I had reasons, then excuses, then the end of school started approaching. The reason I wrote the last couple pages is pretty stupid (but hey, at least it happened). I was reading this awesome Raven/Beast Boy fic and it was only two chapters long. And I was irritated because it ended on a cliffy. So I checked to see when it was last updated, which was some time in January. I was a bit huffy after that until I realized that that was essentially what I had done.

So I wrote the remaining three pages, was nearly late to running, (yeah Cross-Country summer pre-practice practice), and hunted down my betas.

Oh and if you don't like the introduction of Habshi and Kahlo, know this. I was planning to a ask a guy to prom in the same way that Kahlo asked Habshi. Only, my prospect had the nerve to ask someone sophomore from another school (which didn't work out Yay!). So, my theory upon writing this was: It's Going To Work Somewhere, If Only In My Head.

Basically, I don't do fruitless/unrequited romances (at least in writing). I'm still quite capable of writing rotten, unhappy endings. However, just know that there will probably be a happy ending lurking somewhere on my hard-drive. It just won't get posted. Or there will be a sequel. But anyways.

Oh and if anyone wants to see the paper with the questions that I refer to, I can email to you. Because I am awesome and actually have it on my hard drive. I do so love my pack rat tendencies.

This has not been betaed. Well, it has, I just haven't gotten any of the betaed versions back. The main problem appears to be computers and the predilection for jumping of the ends of the earth that all of my betas seem to have. So, I went back over this again (I normally edit as I add the spaces between paragraphs). I caught a lot of weird words and minor errors.

Oh, and Kärki is based off of the awesome AP English teacher I had this year. Unfortunately, I haven't seen him since May (he disappeared the week before the AP test). I'm sure he would've been slaughtered by all three classes of Neurotic AP Students, had it not been for the fact that he managed to do something horrible to his back, get an infection, and land himself in the hospitable. He enjoys mispronouncing certain people's names and would definitely use the nickname "twin-sin."

But yeah, clears throat the moment you've been waiting five months for…. drumrolllllllllll:

**CHAPTER SIX**

I walk slowly through the hallway and into the small courtyard. There's still a few straggling bunches of students exiting the classrooms, but most are already gathered in groups out in high school's main quad. I stand by one of the pillars framing the courtyard and wait for Russell or Winry, if she's forgiven me. Not that that's likely or anything.

I look out across the small bit of campus I can see. Students are still chatting in clusters and a few are beginning to walk off towards their classes. I happen to glance over at the science building and I spot Envy and his friends. He's grinning and when the geeky boy, I think his name is Fuery, says something, Envy laughs.

I blush and duck my head, though there's no way he can see me. When I look up again, he's arguing with Roy. He takes a step forward and a hand suddenly appears on his shoulder. A tall, dark-haired girl steps from the shadows. She looks vaguely familiar, but I can't remember who she is. She doesn't fit with Envy's group. They're all wearing red, black, and white, whereas she's clad in a dark pink striped shirt with writing on the front, classy jeans, and elegant heels.

She saws something to him and he looks right at me. I freeze. Even though I can't make out his eyes at this distance I'm still caught in his stare.

"She's really something," Russell says, suddenly materializing by my shoulder. I nearly jump out of my skin. I didn't even hear him approach.

"Wha—huh?"

Russell smirks and jerks his head towards Envy.

I raise an eyebrow. Surely, Russell's not referring to Envy. I mean, he has to know that Envy's a guy by now, or at the very least, that it's not smart to call Envy a girl. Personally, I thought Russell learned his lesson freshman year when he tried to hit on Envy and Envy hit him. Hard. Several times. And kicked him for good measure.

"Sloth," Russell says dreamily. I look back at Envy and sure enough, Sloth is there, talking with Envy and the other girl.

"Ah," I say, feigning understanding. How Russell's feelings towards Sloth can, in the space of a day, go from indifference to disturbingly slavish devotion is beyond me. However, the inner workings of Russell's brain are beyond most people (and most people try to keep it that way) and he might only be attracted to her because of her teenaged vamp look. That or he sees Sloth as attractively bottled Winry-deterrent. Either one is possible.

"Yeah, she likes owls."

Where did that come from?

Is he stoned or something?

I check Russell's pupils—they're normal looking. He doesn't look concussed, so I rule out adverse encounters with Winry's wrench.

"Oh?" I say, raising both eyebrows. "And how do you know this?"

"I have my sources," Russell says before flipping his hair and looking away.

"Right," I mutter and scowl at him.

"Fine, Fletcher told me that Al told him that Wrath said in Biology that his sister liked owls."

I resist the urge to bang my head against the pillar. Russell must be completely obsessed with Sloth if he's already pumped Fletcher for any and all information concerning her. Winry is so going to kill Russell when she hears about this.

"Ed!"

"Russell!"

We both turn as our siblings hurry towards us.

"You'll never guess—"

"I can't believe that Mr. Armstrong would really make you run an extra four miles if you didn't dress down," Fletcher whines. I smile sympathetically. That only happened to me once and even then Armstrong took pity on me. Only because I really did forget my PE clothes and, NOT, as Russell likes to believe, because I started stuttering halfway through my explanation and almost cried. Russell likes to think that Armstrong has a weakness for small cute things. Not that he's right or anything.

"What excuse did you give him?" Russell inquires.

"I told him I'd forgotten my combination to the lock Mom bought and that she'd be real mad if he cut it off."

I roll my eyes. The excuse is creative, but not believable.

"And?" I ask.

"He didn't believe me."

"Next time, do what Ed did and," Russell says with a smug smile. "Tell him that you forgot your clothes at home and pretend you're going to start crying soon. It's the only thing that's been proven to work."

"Russell, Armstrong's not st-st-stupid," I stutter. "He's going t-t—to check his llllllocker."

I silently apologize to Fletcher for not attempting his name. Al keeps telling me that he thinks I don't like him because of it. I don't want Fletcher to think that, but his name is nearly impossible for me to say. F and l sounds are bad enough by themselves, but together, they're awful. It's almost physically impossible for me to get through the combined sounds without blocking.

"Right," Russell says nodding to me. "Just hide your clothes in your backpack or better yet, actually leave them at home."

As Fletcher considers this approach, I turn to Al.

"What happened in English?" I ask him.

"Well, we were watching this movie and Wrath—did I tell you about Wrath?"

I shake my head.

"Well, he's the one that I met yesterday in Photography Club, only we didn't talk 'cause he's real quiet and kinda shy. But he takes the most amazing photos, you should see them some time—anyway, I was going to sit with him because I still don't really _know _anybody in that class, but there weren't enough seats, so I ended up sitting on his desk until the teacher told me to find a seat. But there weren't any, so I sat in his lap. I tried to talk to him after class but he stayed after and I had to meet Fletcher and you guys," Al pauses for a breath, visibly put out with the possibility that Wrath's started to avoid him.

"And you just met Wrath t-tt-today?" I ask. Sometimes I can't believe how utterly forward my little brother can be. He does stuff like this all the time, to girls _and_ guys. Al also gets away with telling Mom about it. She doesn't mind at all. However, if she ever found out that I'd sat on Envy's lap, I'd never hear the end of it. Mom would probably assume I was gay—and I'm not, I just confused…er attracted to long-haired pale things that aren't Sloth…um crap. I'm not gay, but that wouldn't stop Mom from assuming that and being accepting of it.

And I'm sure all those gay kids out there with homophobic parents are just waiting to tell me how lucky I am and how good I have it. Well, consider this: my mom's way of being accepting is to tell _everybody._

Aunt Lucinda.

Grandma.

Grandpa.

The cleaning lady.

The telemarketer who has the bad luck to call our house.

My teachers.

Parents of people I know.

My friends.

Everybody.

If Mom even thought I was gay, she'd treat just like I'd gotten a girlfriend.

'Hello, Mr. Tringham. Do you know what Ed told me today. Well, apparently…'

That's not how I want to come out. Not that I have anywhere to come out of, because I'm not gay. I'm asexual, remember. I. Don't. Have. Urges.

Unless I'm around Envy. Then everything goes to hell in a hand basket.

"Ed, are you even listening?" Al asks, sharply.

"Um," I stall.

"Well, I was saying, that today's the first time I've really talked with Wrath, but he's in three of my classes. He's a really neat guy, I just hope he doesn't think I'm playing a joke on him like the guys on the football team did," Al shudders and looks at me.

"I'm glad I didn't make the football team. I don't think he would have even talked to me if I had."

I smile at Al. Al's always been good at football and he really wanted to make the team. He definitely would've, if he hadn't broken his fingers during the second week of summer practice. After that happened, he immediately attached himself to the boy's soccer team and somehow convinced the coach to give him a chance.

"Being a soccer player—"

"Al, I'm positive it wouldn't matter even if you did play fff-f-f-ff—f-football. Wrath wouldn't be able t-tt-to ignore you very lllllong," I say, trying to comfort him. Al remains unconvinced and shrugs.

"Maybe," he says and looks down.

The bell rings and breaks the sudden silence.

"Well, I have to go to Spanish," Al says, smiling again.

"Yeah, Russell and I have English," I say and wave him off. Russell says goodbye to Fletcher and we walk towards C-9.

"So, honestly, Ed, who are you thinking about asking to the dance?" Russell asks, smiling down at me. I glare at him. I don't even want to think about the dance. It's not that I can't dance, it's that I'd have to ask someone or end up going with an extremely forward girl, like Winry.

"No one," I answer, honestly.

"Come on."

"I'm being honest," I mutter and walk through the glass and metal doors into the small hallway. Russell follows.

"No, really Ed," Russell whines as we walk past C-8. My stomach twists and I gulp as I rest my hand on the door to C-9. It feels like I'm about to walk into another, stranger land and I put off opening it.

"Who are _you_ going t-to ask?" I question, before opening the door and walking into the room. It's partially filled with people and most of them are in their seats, chatting with their neighbors. I bite my lip and look around for the teacher.

A man in a dull green coat is talking with a curly haired girl in the corner. She says something. He mutters a reply and she listens.

I dimly realize that Russell has been talking to me.

"Hmm?"

"Never mind," he mutters, and adds before I can force him to elaborate "Let's go talk to Kärki."

He walks over to the man and I follow. The old man looks up as we approach.

"Try-ham, what do you have for me? Been corrupting innocents have we?" Kärki says gruffly.

I want to complain. I'm not innocent. Russell's not corrupting me. That's not how you pronounce his last name either. I say nothing. Mr. Kärki doesn't look like he'd care one way or another what I thought.

"This is Ed. He transferred in yesterday," Russell explains, ignoring Kärki's remark about the corrupting of innocence.

"Ah. Relative of yours?" Kärki asks, conversationally.

Russell and I look at each other briefly and shake our heads in mute horror. I don't even want to contemplate that possibility.

"No? Well, then Mr. Elric you've got quite a lot of catching up to do," Mr. Kärki growls out. "You can sit behind Jackson—Try-ham knows where that is—for now. Someone will have to help you catch up."

Kärki mutters the last bit to himself. I shift from foot to foot. Am I supposed to stay here or go to my seat.

"Kärki!" another student shouts, "What'd we do yesterday?"

"C'mon, Ed," Russell mutters, walking off. I follow. As always. "Here's your seat. So, seriously, you think she'll say yea—Oh hey, Winry?"

Russell trails off in the face of Winry's glare. Damn. Three periods and she still hasn't forgiven me.

"Wow Ed, I haven't seen her that mad since—"

"Quiet," I mutter and look away, towards the open door.

"I mean, there has to be something else going on besides you insensitively teasing her in front of—"

"Russell," I say in a warning tone. I'm already being ignored by Winry, I don't need Russell's lectures too.

"No, think about it Ed. There's no way she's just mad about this," Russell says. I glare at him. People keep coming through the door.

"There have to be more things. Now, whether or not she's mad at you for other things, or other people for other things is the question." I stop paying attention to Russell and stare at the person currently entering the room.

Envy.

Before I can grasp exactly what his presence here means, he looks at me. Our eyes meet and I'm lost. There's just something about his eyes that's intoxicating, hypnotizing, memorizing. It's not the color either. If he had hazel eyes or even brown eyes, I'm sure they would be just as captivating.

"You're not even listening to—"

Sloth pokes Envy in the back and whispers something in his ear. He turns slightly pink, grins as he gives me a little wave, and practically bounces into his desk. Sloth follows at a slower pace. She's shed her black and silver trench coat to expose a frilly red asymmetrical cocktail dress that would be scandalous save for the dark grey turtleneck and black straight-leg jeans. Russell sighs longingly and from across the room Winry gives Sloth a look of complete scorn.

Sloth ignores Winry's look, if she even sees it, and glides into the seat behind Envy. She's two seats over from me; not next to me, but close. Kärki moves from his spot in the back corner and Russell mutters something about the impending Hell of AP History and heads over to his seat, in the front row. Kärki apparently _isn't_ one of those teachers who insist on placing the top students in the front and the slackers in the back. Russell's not a particularly bad student, he's just chronically unmotivated and has a certain knack for eliciting the hatred of teachers.

A crowd of students enters the classroom and they quickly fill up most of the remaining seats. I spot Noah amongst them. She smiles at me and I nod in return. She carefully takes her seat to the left of Sloth and to the right of Winry. I wince. That cannot be a good spot to be in, especially not today.

Mr. Kärki glares at the last few stranglers before sitting down in the desk directly in front of Envy's. Russell fidgets. I don't blame him. Kärki is sitting two feet to Russell's left. That's enough to make anyone, except for Sloth, nervous.

Kärki stares at the juniors in their seats. Most of the talking dies down and the beginning of third period draws closer. One by one all conversations stop and the whole class stares at the pale, white-haired man.

I shift in my seat. Why isn't he doing anything?

The bell rings. The sound is loud and long. Teachers seldom allow the bell to ring in utter silence, without interruption.

The door bursts open and a couple enters the room, noisily. The boy is grinning outright, while the girl keeps trying to smother her smile and look serious. Every so often she fails and grins for a moment. Someone in the front row whispers something to her and she nods and blushes. Envy gives her a thumbs-up sign and Sloth grins at her.

Kärki stares at the pair as though they are Martians who have invaded his classroom.

"Habshi, you're late and corrupting innocents. But that's nothing new."

The boy grins unabashedly. He seems unbothered by Kärki's statement.

"The lipstick on your cheek, however, is a new development."

The boy, _Habshi, _grins in a supremely stunned way. It's the way I imagine Russell would grin if Sloth Peccato kissed him. The dumb, slightly bewildered grin of a man who currently has the girl of his dreams by his side, but can't quite remember how she got there. The girl next to him blushes fiercely.

Kärki looks at her, then transfers his attention back to Habshi.

"I was expecting something like this to happen," Kärki says, cleaning his glasses. "Your brother was the same way. But not you, Miss Kahlo. I never thought you, of all people, would succumb to the advances of a Habshi."

"Hey, what's not to love?" Habshi asked, throwing his arm around the shoulders of his lady love.

"Your breath, for one," Miss Kahlo says with an impish smile. Kärki turned to Russell as Miss Kahlo and the Habshi boy took their seats in the far corner of the room.

"Isn't it interesting that someone with the name Serendipity Serenity could turn out to be such a parental headache," Kärki remarks in a conversational tone. Russell stares at him as if Kärki had asked him if he thought Sloth was prettier than Winry.

"Uh," is Russell's eloquent answer.

"Well my pretties," Kärki says rising from his seat. "Now that Serendipity and Landon have decided to grace with their presence, we shall begin. Due to the arrangement of the groups, I have decided to grant you a week to adjust to them."

The class tenses as a whole at his words. I can't think of what he means by 'adjust.' It's not like he'd make groups out of people who can't stand each other. No teacher would be that evil, _right?_

"The groups are intended to force people outside of their comfort zones. Last period I put Theodora and Justin in a group together," Kärki said, smiling as he walks around the classroom. The eyes of the class remain fixed on him. "All their discussions in class have disintegrated into shouting matches, but neither of them informed me that they couldn't work with the other. So, they were fair game."

I gulp. Fortunately, I don't hate anyone in here and even if I did, Kärki wouldn't know that. Someone asks why Theodora and Justin hate each other. Kärki pauses, and the pale, dark haired boy from Physics fidgets. I don't blame him.

"They're both loud, opinionated, stubborn people with opposing viewpoints," Kärki replies, returning to his seat at the front of class. "I expect that I will receive two different projects from that group: one done Theodora's way and one done Justin's way.

"Hmm, normally I'd have to change the group due to the recent development, but maybe not," Kärki mutters as he flips through sheaf of papers. "Group One is Sloth Peccato, Serendipity Serenity Kahlo, Envy Peccato, Landon Habshi, and Edward Elric."

_Envy. _My heart jumps to my throat and I stare at Kärki. Sure, he didn't place me in a group with my worst enemy, but he did the next best thing. Envy. How am I going to focus with him around?

I don't know anyone in that group well and I hate being around people I don't know. There's always introductions or worse, explanations. I'm Edward Ellllric, and in case you don't know alllready, I st-st-sttutter.

As you can imagine I hate dinner parties and any other event that requires mingling with persons unknown. It's horrible, I always manage to end up in groups of bad conversationalists. I hate long awkward silences and forced conversation. However, nothing can compare to the time Mom "intervened." Her idea of "intervention" was to introduce me to this deaf girl.

If you ask me, there is something fundamentally wrong with the idea of me communicating with a deaf girl under any circumstances, save perhaps internet chat rooms. It would have been more bearable had this party been held at my house. If it had been, I could've escaped to my room before being forcibly introduced to Clara. However, that was simply not the case.

This situation wouldn't have been so bad if I had, say known ASL, but due to my mom's belief that if I could "talk" in ASL, where I didn't stutter, I'd never speak aloud again. Mom is, of course, completely wrong. Too few people know ASL for that plan to really work.

The really unfortunate thing about that whole situation was the fact that Clara is normally excellent at reading lips. She's a lot better at it than most deaf adults are and generally doesn't need an interpreter at all. Unless she was, you know, going to talk to a chronic stutterer.

"Go meet with your groups, chunkies. Unless you're in Group One, then come see me," Kärki growls out suddenly. I jump and all thoughts of Clara flee my mind as I get up to join the group forming around Kärki's desk.

Landon and Serendipity Serenity are standing next to each other, smiling. I stand awkwardly next to them, keeping Sloth between Envy and me. I don't even know why I'm avoiding him anymore. It's not like it's going to do any good. I'm still going to have work on this group project with him.

"Alright," Kärki says clearing his throat. "Mr. Elric, you're going to be Peccato's responsibility since you joined us a little bit late in the semester."

I practically hear the smile form on Envy's face.

"She'll explain the daybooks, answer your questions about the reading and this project," Kärki continues. Envy coughs.

"Yes, Peccato?" Kärki says raising an eyebrow.

"I don't think that's going to work," he says, flipping his green hair back.

"Why not, twin-sin?"

"Sloth is busy person," Envy answers, waving his hand vaguely. Kärki glares at Sloth.

"I am not. It's just that I have winterguard practice tonight, and play rehearsals start today after school, and there's a Lit Mag meeting at lunch, and I have a choir tryout some time in—"

"Serendipity?" Kärki asks, turning away from Sloth. My eyes widen. No, not this. Any thing is better than working exclusively with someone I don't know. Especially when they have a name as unpronounceable as Serendipity Serenity Kahlo.

"Sorry, I have Cross-Country practice, speaking of which, there's kind of a meet on Friday and…"

"Tomorrow?" Kärki clarifies.

"Yes, so I'm not going be here," Serendipity drawls, stretching out the words as if to apologize for their existence.

"Hashbi? Ha! He's probably further behind than Elric at this point," Kärki mutters to himself before turning back to Envy. "Alright. Elric is your responsibility, twin-sin. So, if he screws up, it's going to affect your grade, not his."

"I can handle that," Envy says smugly, trying not to beam in front of Kärki. I just stare. It's better than Landon or Serendipity. Actually, considering that Envy and Sloth live in the same house, it's better this way. Envy probably would've just hung around Sloth and me or sulked. At least, this way, he's not going to have to make up excuses to be around me.

Not that he would need to.

And no, not for that reason. I can't stop him from being where I am.

Okay, that came out wrong.

Envy doesn't have to make up excuses to be around me because there is no reason to make up excuses. Because he doesn't like me. He can't. He just can't. He's just confused by my hair and the fact that I'm not quite as tall as he.

_Like you were confused by _his _long hair?_

I banish that thought.

It's simply not the same thing.

"Is that all, Mr. Kärki?" Landon asks, sweetly. Kärki looks at him suspiciously, before nodding his assent.

"Let's meet over there," Sloth says, pointing to an unclaimed corner of the room. I shrug and everyone else returns to their seats to gather up their stuff. I watch Envy out of the corner of my eye. I don't want to ignore him, not after the way he reacted in Physics; but, I can't help it. It's just so much easier to avoid his eyes than risk being trapped in them forever.

I walk slowly over to the group, dragging my backpack along with me. Everyone else is already in groups and talking amongst themselves. I sit down in a vacant seat and drag it around until I'm facing Sloth. She smiles at me, I smile back, weakly. So far, today has been nothing short of a disaster.

Serendipity and Landon slide, predictably, into seats next to each other. The only vacant seat is between me Sloth. Envy's seat. I gulp. I don't even know why I'm so nervous. Physics should have proven that there's nothing I can do to make him hate me; yet, I'm still apprehensive.

A thought occurs to me. Perhaps this is how Russell feels when he's around his current crush (this week, it's Sloth). Only he doesn't have the insurance of knowing that there's no way he can screw up. I shudder. It truly sounds like a terrifying existence. Though, Russell's never seemed to consider the possibility of failure. It's almost as if he just assumes that all females love him.

"Hiya, Edo," Envy says, plopping down in the seat next to me. I jump.

"Hey, Envy," I say and look at him.

Big mistake.

He's positively beaming.

And absolutely 'dead-drop' gorgeous, as Grandmother Elric likes to say.

"Hi Ed," Serendipity Serenity says. "I'm Seren."

I give her a strange look.

"It's my nickname, FYI, don't ever call me Serendipity Serenity or bad things will happen." She grins broadly.

I nod. There's not much else I can do. Seren is only mildly better than Serendipity Serenity.

"Who's the leader?" Kärki asks, suddenly appearing behind Sloth.

"I am!"

"I AM!"

"It's me!"

"I'm so the leader."

Kärki looks baffled momentarily.

"I suppose you're the leader too, Elric," Kärki growls out, looking at me.

"No," I say. The idea is stupid. Me, leader? Yeah right. I've never been group leader and, honestly, I don't want to be. I'm much better at second in command. That way, people still listen to me and I don't have to bother with arranging meetings and people and stuff. Medium amount of power with little responsibility. Perfect.

"No? Well, you should be," Kärki mutters. "Peccato, I thought we decided you already had too much to do. You can't be leader, you evil Italian woman, you."

Sloth glares at Kärki, who pretends not to notice.

"You're keeping Edward on track, twin-sin. No leadership role for you," Kärki says. "So it's between Habshi and Kahlo."

"I'll be leader!" Habshi crows. Sloth elbows his in the ribs.

"He can be leader," Serendipity says, graciously.

"Right, well, good luck with that Habshi. If you can remain in this position for more than a day, I'll be surprised," Kärki hands Landon a sheaf of papers, before scribbling something down and walking off to question other groups.

"So," Landon says, passing out the papers. "This is the group project."

We all stare at the paper. On it is roughly 25 items that must be completed within three weeks. The first one is an essay about what Dante (who's Dante?) was doing at the beginning of the poem, what his sin was, how old he was, and what his salvation was. I skip down to the questions 2-21, which make absolutely no sense. How should I know why God hates fraud the most? What is usury? And last time I checked, Satan only had one head, not three.

Question 22 is really consists of four one page essays about people with Italian names and how Dante reacts to their various predicaments. Question, or assignment, 23 involves finding and comparing current illustrations of the Inferno with more ancient ones and writing an essay on the topic.

I sigh.

I have never been this lost in a class before.

"So," Seren drawls, breaking the silence. "Who wants to be editor?"

Silence.

"I'm already leader—"

"Landon, I've read your Daybooks. You can't be editor," Sloth says, fiddling with a piece of paper. "Seren, do you want to be editor?"

"Umm, I don't—"

"I can be the editor," I hear myself say.

"Okay, Ed," Sloth agrees happily. Seren nods and Landon gives me an appraising look.

"You're Al's brother, aren't you?" He asks.

"Yeah," I say, wondering if Landon is the brother of one of Al's friends.

"He's a pretty good soccer player for starting during tryouts," Landon says, nodding.

"Wait, you two know each other?" Seren asks, raising her eyebrows.

"Nah, I've just heard of his brother," Landon says, smiling again as he turns to his girlfriend. I roll my eyes.

"So, Landon, who's doing what on this sheet?" Envy asks suddenly with a smirk.

"Uh, right," Landon drawls. His voice is one of the lowest I've ever heard. Much lower than Dad's, Mr. Tringham, or mine own. I've never met someone who had a baritone speaking voice and it's interesting.

He's also built very uniquely. He's average height. He's more thickset than scrawny and he'd be considered stocky if he was any shorter. His muscles are not the wiry, whipcord type or the hard, defined type. He's not fat either, just toned. I've never seen a guy who looked like that before.

"I'll do the Paolo and Francesca essay," Sloth volunteers.

"Envy, you're a good writer, you do Ugolino," Seren states. Envy shrugs when I look at him.

"Landon, do you want Guido da Montefeltro or Brunetto Latino?"

"I'll do Brunetto."

"Ed, why don't you do the beginning essay and the art essay," Seren says. "You're the editor, so you shouldn't have to do any of the questions."

I nod.

The fact that I can't answer any of the questions probably has a lot more to do with Seren's decision than any concern for my workload. The fact that I've been given the easiest two essays does not escape my attention, either.

"I'll do questions two through six," Landon says, as Seren scribbles that down. I begin to see why Kärki said that Landon would be lucky if kept his position as group leader. He was really too laid back to lead Sloth and Seren anywhere, never mind Envy.

"I got seven through eleven," Sloth declares.

"Brilliant, I'll do twelve through sixteen and Envy that means you get seventeen through twenty," Seren concludes.

"So, what else needs to be done or can we just chill?" Landon inquires. I shrug. They all seem to know what's going on.

"Yes, Lan, we can just chill now," Seren says the word 'chill' as if it is foreign and slightly distasteful. Envy snickers softly at this. Sloth hides a smile. Landon looks bemused.

"So, Ed," Envy says suddenly, "What IM do you use?"

"Um," I try to think of a way to stall without hurting his feelings. Sometimes I regret the fact that I can't say my IM identity off the top of my head. It's the downside of having picked something like Stutterbug.

"Do you really need it?" I ask. Envy's face falls. "I mean, can't we just email each other?"

"I guess, but IM's so much faster," Envy says, resting his head on his crossed arms.

"Besides, what makes you think I can't t-tt-talk on the ff-ffff-ff-phone?" I stutter out quickly, glancing at Landon to see his reaction. Only it's more of a non-reaction. Both he and Seren are unfazed by my stuttering. I'm shocked. This never happens. Ever. People _always_ stare at me when they first hear me stutter.

"Can you?" Envy asks, and Sloth looks away quickly.

"No," I muttered, dropping my head. Why can't I be normal?

"So, IM works best, unless, of course, you'd prefer to come over andmaybespendthenight?" Envy asks, looking at me hopefully.

I stare at him.

He did not just say what I think he said.

That would be impossible.

"What?" I ask, shell-shocked. Envy was probably joking. Or meant something else, because there's no way he just invited me to spend the night with him.

"Well, you could always come over to my house and we could work on the project, and getting you caught up, and since Sloth's there too, you could work on your history project, and stuff," Envy trails off.

"I—uh, I'd have to ask my parents," I say. I can't believe it. This has to be another dream.

"Okay, well, it doesn't have to be tonight, Friday works too," Envy says, fighting not to grin broadly. I smile back at him, I can't help myself. He's so amazing. He grins back at me.

"Hey, the bell's about to ring, so why don't we all write down phone number and shit—ow!—"

"Don't swear!"

"And stuff," Landon amends, shooting Seren what can only be called a kicked-puppy look. She glares at him. Envy snickers.

Sloth is busy ripping a piece of binder paper into five pieces.

"Write your name on one of these and pass it around," Sloth instructs. Everyone listens. I write my phone number and email address down on three slips of paper before reaching Envy's.

After writing out my email address, I pause. Envy really wanted my IM address. And it really would be better to IM him that to email or attempt to use the phone. I bite my lip. If I give him my IM name in writing, he'll understand why I didn't want to say it and he won't be upset.

I release my lip and scrawl Stutterbug, just as the bell rings.

**Fin.**

Any glaring mechanical errors that I should be aware of?

Areas that the Writer did extremely well at:

Areas that need work:

Chapter Question: There wasn't a huge change in tone/style from the previous chapter, was there?

Oh and if you can tell me who I borrowed the name Kahlo from, I'll give you a sneak preview (when I get it written) of the next chapter. WARNING: I happen to be evil, so the preview is going to end on a cliffy.

Also, does anyone want to see images of the setting? I have a few photos and I should work on my building drawing skills…


	7. Chapter 7

Okay

Okay. This is about three pages less than usual. However, you've only had to wait sixteen days or so. The reason the chapter is short is that the ending is one of those natural breaks in writing. I like those. I know I was planning on a really long chapter 7, but hey, I took less than a month to update. Chapter 8 will most likely include the rest of Speech Class, Ceramics, and probably Ed's home life. Actually, Chapter 8 will include Ed At Home. I've started work on another Eden fic that's been in my head for ages. It's one of the few that has an ending planned.

I don't own Anne Rice. Nor do I own Rapist Glasses ™, Serial Killer Vans ™, Pedophile Beards ™, Public Masturbator Trench Coats ™, or There's Got To Be Something Wrong With That Guy Hat ™. (If you're confused, then you should look up "Rapist glasses" and "Pedophile Beards" on YouTube)

Considering how little happens in this chapter, I swear I will update at quickly as possible. So, if Potions can type roughly two pages per day, how long will it take until she has 1O? Now add five days (beta delays) to that and that's what I'm aiming for. Now take that and multiply it by 1.2 for unproductive boredom and .9O684. Write an equation, graph the two lines, median-median style, average them together. Repeat three times to make sure you haven't screwed up, compare with at least seven other people, and by the time you have the correct answer I should be done.

…

History starts off surprisingly well. There's no quiz or large overhead images of Mr. Hughes's daughter projected on the board. A quick glance around the room reveals that there's no Hughes either. That's odd. Mr. Hughes rarely misses a day of teaching unless it's a family emergency.

I spot the sub first.

He's in the back corner of the room sitting at Mr. Hughes's desk, looking through a stack of papers. I examine him out of the corner of my eye, while Russell scans the grade sheet Hughes stapled to the wall last week. The sub is an average looking man with nondescript face. His mousy brown hair is beginning to recede and his odd, vaguely round, vaguely square jaw is covered in small tufts of hair. The light glints off his glasses as he looks up. I start and look away.

"Are you okay, Ed?" Russell asks, walking away from the grades.

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm okay," I say, before asking. "Why?"

"Oh nothing," Russell says. "It's just you would've normally made some comment about how checking your grades every day is right up there with checking the refrigerator every five minutes on the list of OCD signs."

"Right," I mutter sarcastically.

"Really, are you okay?" Russell asks again.

"I've never been better," I grind out. Even if I wasn't okay—which I'm not, because I'm actually okay—I'd still resent Russell repeating his question.

"Ss-ss-sso," I stutter without thinking. "What do you think of the sss-sub?"

"What sub?" Russell asks, dropping his backpack with a thud. I set mine down more carefully.

"That one," I say and jerk my head towards Mr. Hughes' desk. Russell falls silent as he stares at the sub. Minutes pass and people filter in. I'm unused to the empty classroom. Normally the room is pretty much full after I walk over from Physics.

"That's his hat, isn't it?" Russell murmurs, looking at the beat-up tope hat on the desk. It's not Hughes's. I've never seen him wear hats.

"Yes," I reply.

"It looks almost like the hats you see the neighborhood watch people wearing."

"Come again?" I ask. Last time I checked, soccer-moms gone vigilante had better taste in hats. Theirs were, at least, clean.

"You know, the type of hats you see on the neighborhood watch signs," Russell explains, or tries to. My face remains blank. I have seen those signs covered with graffiti, yard sale signs, and, on more than one occasion, watched as Al covered the sign in our neighborhood with a Found Kitten sign. I, however, have not seen one covered by a _hat_.

"Like the type of hat the suspicious character dude always wears?" Russell makes a stab at clarification. It fails.

"You know, the silhouette of that guy, with that one creepy hat, and thick glasses, and public masturbator trench coat?"

I raise my eyebrow. Russell is not deterred.

"But mainly, the creepy hat," Russell finishes. I glance over at the hat again, wondering if the man can hear us. I turn back to Russell to warn him not to speak so loudly. To my surprise, Russell has already fallen silent.

"I hope you don't mean _my _hat," a polite and faintly stilted voice says. I look up and see the sub looming over us. His outline is obscured by the overhead fluorescent lights. Perhaps it's because of my distrust in religion, but the haloing effect of the lights does nothing to make me trust this man.

"Uh," Russell says, not meeting the man's eyes. He glances at me, looking for help.

"'Course not," I say and grin broadly. Russell stares blankly, until I kick him discreetly.

"Right, we were totally talking about that _other_ hat," Russell says in a voice reminiscent of a Southern Californian beach bum. "The one over there."

Russell waves his arm in the opposite direction of us. In doing so, he nearly smacks Winry's chest. She glares at him and says nothing. I sigh. This is going to be a long period.

Once the bell rings and the class quiets down, the sub introduces himself as Mr. Tucker. He takes roll slowly, lingering over the names of some students. All of which are girls.

He says my name normally.

"Here," I say, raising my hand halfway up.

"Ah," Mr. Tucker says in his breathy, brittle voice.

I duck my head down. His eyes are unnerving, even when the light reflected off of his glasses doesn't obscure them. I'd say that there was something undeniably creepy about him, but unfounded accusations are Russell's forte, not mine.

Mr. Tucker slowly works his way down the alphabet. F's, G's, H's goes past before he pauses on Lydia Jackson. His voice twists around her name in the smile of a shared private joke. I glance at Lydia. I'd like to say that she looked as creeped out as I feel, but she doesn't. Or if she is I can't tell. I don't really know Lydia all that well. She's just one of those girls who I see fourth period and in between classes. We've never talked. That and I can't say her name.

When Mr. Tucker reaches the P's, his eyes widen. He skims past Palacios, Parat, Parker, Passavant, and Payne—all boys.

"Sloth Peccato."

He practically molests the name.

Russell bristles. Of course, he bristles. He would bristle. He's convinced that Mr. Tucker is some weird publicly masturbating rapist sex-offender who has really bad taste in hats and has, in true Russell fashion, leaped to the conclusion that Mr. Tucker is somehow threatening Sloth by lingering on her name.

It doesn't help that Mr. Tucker is leering at Sloth.

God DAMMIT! I can handle liking Envy, just as long as I don't have the same thoughts as Russell.

Wait.

I don't—I just—it's not like that, he's just—I'm just—it's just not like that—I mean—that's not what I meant—I—

"Did you seem him leer at her?" Russell hisses at me, interrupting my scattered conscious.

"Uh?" Coherent thought is beyond me.

"I swear, he's a creepy old sex offender," Russell continues. "He probably drives a serial killer van."

I nod vaguely.

Bad enough that people think I'm related to Russell, now I'm starting to think like him. Nothing else happens until Tucker reaches the T's.

"Russell Tringham," Mr. Tucker calls out, looking around the room.

"Here," Russell says in a threatening voice and glares at Mr. Tucker. Mr. Tucker starts, but continues down the list. He is truly a nervous man.

"And you wonder why teachers seem to hate you," I mutter.

"What do you mean?" Russell demands. I roll my eyes.

"What were you thinking? Glaring at him? Do you want him t-tt-tto know that you're on tt-tt-to him?" I hiss back. "And would it kill you tt-ttt-tt-to be more discreet?"

"Teachers don't ha—what do mean 'on to him'?" Russell interrupts himself. I fight the urge to sigh. Trust him to miss the important part.

"Does this mean you suspect him too?"

"I meant nothing of the—"

I stop. Not because Russell's still talking about how my similar assessment of the situation leads to Tucker's guilt. No. I don't know what to say. I wanted to say 'I said nothing of the sort,' I thought I was alright after I censored said, but I forgot about 'sort.' I try to think of synonyms, but the only one that fits is type. I can't say type either.

"Be quiet," Winry hisses to Russell. "He's not deaf."

Russell and I look up. Mr. Tucker is putting away the roll sheet. I look away before Tucker looks back. Russell keeps staring.

"Alright, now your teacher said that you've started a group project, correct?" Mr. Tucker says. His voice is lightly accented, but I can't place it. It sounds faintly British or upper class. Only that doesn't fit with him. Why would someone from wealthy social circles become a high school sub? It just doesn't make sense.

I refuse to consider the possibility of vampire bites and other nonsense. I'm not that far gone.

"And you've already gotten into your groups?"

The class mutters an affirmative.

"Right then," Tucker says, glancing nervously at the sheet, presumably the notes that Hughes left him. "Well, the note says that you're to work quietly in your groups. But I don't need to tell you that. I'm sure you're all excellent little angels."

Was it just me, or did Mr. Tucker smile a tad too wide on the last bit.

…

Our group is in the dark corner opposite Mr. Hughes's desk. Russell arranged the superfluous desks around our circle in a none-too-subtle attempt at a barricade. Sloth has chosen the seat in the corner. Russell is, as expected, sitting next to her. He's positioned himself between her and any "threats", real or imagined. I wonder if he realizes this. I doubt it. I sit in the last seat available: between Winry and Russell.

There is a long pause. No one seems willing to break the silence.

"Did anyone do any research last night?" Winry asks finally.

"Not really."

"No."

"Vampires live there."

Everyone stares at Russell.

"Excuse me?" Winry says, as if she can't believe her ears.

"Russell, don't you mean—"

"I was just kidding, jeeze."

"Is everything going alright over here?" Mr. Tuckers asks. Everyone jumps.

"Yes," Russell growls and gives Mr. Tucker his best death glare. The man looks down at Russell with a look of mock surprise on his face. He opens his mouth to say something, but walks away instead.

"Ugh, that man is so creepy," Winry mutters with a shudder.

"Not nearly as bad as the one with shoe-polish dye job," Sloth remarks.

"But that guy didn't drive a Serial Killer Van," Russell interjects.

"You don't even know what car he drives!" I say. I cannot believe that Russell just said that. Not everyone kills time by exploring the vast reaches of YouTube.

"Is he always like this?" Sloth asks, eyeing Russell warily. I don't blame her. If you haven't seen the YouTube videos, Russell appears to be absolutely nuts. Not that there's much of a difference. It's just that most people come to this conclusion when Russell's going off about vampires.

"No," Winry says, surprising me and Russell. Why isn't she mad at Sloth? Why? "He's normally much, much worse."

"Hey at least I don't go around hitting people with wrenches!" Russell complains. I resist the urge to bang my head against the desk. Russell can be so dense. Not only is he baiting Winry when she's already pissed, but he's humiliating himself in front of Sloth. Does he realize any of this? NO! All those years of crushing on girls from a distance have really taken a toll on his social skills.

_Like yours are any better?_

I pointedly ignore the insidious little voice.

"You're all deranged," I mutter to myself.

"I agree," Sloth says. Unfortunately, this has the effect of reminding Russell of Sloth's presence. He stares at her, like a deer in the headlights, before saying:

"You look like you could be an extra in a Victorian Gothic vampire movie," Russell blurts out.

"Come again?" Sloth says, raising her eyebrows.

"You look like you walked out of an Anne Rice novel," Russell elaborates, a glazed expression on his face. Winry snickers. I stare on in shock. I can't believe it. He's so—it's not even—there aren't really words to describe his idiocy right now. Honestly, can't he just _pretend _to be normal?

"Are you mocking me because I'm pale?" Sloth asks. I wince. Her tones border on outraged. Russell stares at Sloth wide eyed. He obviously wasn't expecting her to react this way. I'm not sure _what_ he thought her reaction was going to be, and I don't want to know.

"No," Russell says, confused. "Why would I do that?"

He wouldn't either. Russell would never mock a pale person, ever. Worship them in extremely creepy and disturbing ways, yes. Mock them, no. Unfortunately, most people don't know that.

"Just because I'm Italian doesn't mean I have to be tan or sexy!" Sloth retorts hotly.

"But you are se—OW!"

I interrupt Russell with a quick kick in the shins.

"Ed, what was that for?" Russell demands.

"You'll thank me fff-f-f-for it eventually," I respond in a lower tone.

"No, I won't," Russell mutters. "Sloth, you're a pale, sexy, Italian woman."

I cannot believe it.

I simply can't believe that Russell just did that.

I can't. It's impossible.

Russell Admires-But-Does-Not-Touch Tringham does not do such things.

It just doesn't happen.

Winry makes a choking sound. I can't quite tell if it's anger or laughter. Or both.

I glance at Sloth. Surely, that girl has an eloquent, insulting put down ready. Russell's stupidity deserves nothing less. She doesn't. Instead, she's blushing.

She, Sloth Peccato, is blushing. And not just a little blush either. Her whole face is a brilliant red.

"Um, thank you?" Sloth finally says. She's still staring at Russell as if she can't decide whether he's just a harmless awkward teenage male or a dangerous psychopath with an unhealthy interest in her. Considering the fact that it's Russell, there's not much of a difference.

"Err, well," Russell says, turning crimson as he begins to realize what he just said. "Any time."

An awkward silence follows.

"So," Winry says, once again breaking the silence. "When are we going to get together to work on this and where?"

I refuse to suggest my house. I do not want to facilitate the meeting of my mom and Sloth. Or have Dad meet Sloth.

"We could meet at my house on Saturday," Sloth suggests, not looking in Russell's direction. I don't blame her. After Russell's outburst, eye contact could be considered consent.

"Okay," I mutter.

"Sure!" Russell says, sound a little bit _too _happy.

"Sorry, I can't. I have other plans," Winry says with a smile.

"Winry, if it makes you un—Would you stop kicking me Ed?"

"Only if you t-t-take your ff-ff-fff-foot out of your mouth," I reply.

"Seriously, Winry, why can't you come?" Russell continues.

"I said I have other plans," Winry replies, angrily.

"But what does that _mean?_"

"Other plans means OTHER PLANS! As in I'm not going to be available that day!"

"Oh," Russell says, confused as ever. I stare at Winry. She wouldn't avoid Sloth's house just because she doesn't want to see Russell fawn over Sloth. It doesn't make sense. Winry's never changed her schedule just to accommodate high school drama. She's also driven off every single girl who ever showed interest in Russell.

So why the sudden change?

Whatever it is, it doesn't seem to phase Sloth, who mouths something at Winry. I can't read lips, but Winry blushes and nods. Sloth gives her a thumbs up and whispers, "Nice."

The rest of the period is surprisingly productive. We work out the basic design for the brochure and discuss the presentation part. Sloth continues to avoid eye contact with Russell. Winry doesn't glare at me. Russell doesn't blurt out his thoughts and Mr. Tucker does not stop by our group again.

…

Lunch is uneventful. Russell stands in line with me for hot lunch and proceeds to talk non-stop about Sloth. I give Al the seven dollars he requests and he, Fletcher, and their friends all disappear. Winry doesn't eat with us. Russell takes advantage of this fact and hypothesizes on what the incident in History really means along with the invitation to Sloth's house. I sigh and nod occasionally. I can't wait for lunch to be over.

When the bell finally rings, Russell and I walk to the art buildings. His next class, Ceramics, is right next to Izumi's new room.

"See you after class," Russell says as he veers off to the left.

"Yeah," I say and open the door.

…

There's already about five students in the room. They're all sitting at the two tables near the front of the class room. I take a seat at an empty table. Izumi hasn't arrived yet and the room is completely quiet. Though, what else would you expect from kids who can't talk?

Izumi drifts in from a door in the back of the class. I watch as she moves soundlessly to the desk in the front of the room. There, she sits down and begins to go through the file folders she was carrying. A few more people enter the classroom and take seats at the tables. A tall senior girl named Rose sits down at my table. She nervously tucks her pink bangs behind her ear and smiles at me. I smile back.

The door opens and I'm shocked to see Sloth. Why on earth would she be here?

Moments later I come to the correct conclusion. She must be an office aid this period and have a note for one of the students. But Izumi smiles at her and Sloth sits down quickly at the table next to mine.

Maybe Izumi's having Sloth wait to deliver the note. Maybe Sloth is an aide for this class. Maybe… but no. Sloth's set her backpack down and has her binder out on the desk.

She's obviously not delivering a note. And a student aiding for this class wouldn't make much sense. But Sloth can't be a stutterer or lisp or anything. Any disfluency would be obvious by now. Unless she's somehow managed to hide it, which raises the question of why she's here. She can function perfectly normally. She doesn't even say 'um' during presentations or hesitate or trip over words, ever. There's no reason for her to be here. Unless…

Unless she's only here to meet the fifteen-student class minimum the district has in place. I take a quick head count. There are seventeen students. This can't be right. But… Sloth was in the counseling office yesterday. She was changing her classes too.

I still can't quite wrap my mind around the idea of Sloth Peccato having any sort of speech disfluency. It's just too weird.

"So, I see that everyone is here today," Izumi says, distracting me from my thoughts. People nod and murmur vague affirmatives.

"I'd like to start off by having everyone introduce themselves and their disfluency," Izumi continues. "Would anyone like to go first?"

I wait for Sloth to raise her hand. She doesn't.

"I'm Row-th and I have a lithp," Rose quietly. She looks like Noah, almost exactly like Noah, and I wonder if they're related.

"What do you like to do, Rose?" Izumi asks encouragingly.

"I like to garden," she murmurs.

"Nn-Nick and I and I stutter and, andandand I play basketball," a young boy I've never seen before says. He's probably a freshman. He certainly looks nervous enough. After that people start introducing themselves fairly quickly. I recognize a few people from last year. There are a surprising number of freshmen this year. Six compared to the two last year.

Finally the only people who haven't introduced themselves are Sloth and me. I glance over at her. She has her head done, avoiding eye contact. I decide to do the gentlemanly thing and go first.

"I'm Ed," I say. I suddenly decide I don't want to say 'and I'm a stutterer.' That sounds like a line adapted from an AA meeting. Impulsively, I say "I'm a sss-ssst-st-stt-t-stuh-stutter." Breath. "Bug and I lll-llll-llike sss-ss-Ceramics."

I smile to myself. I'd forgotten how much I like Speech Class. It's the one class where I can stutter and not have to worry about people making fun of me or looking at me funny. It's normal here.

I really like English though. I just don't want to sound hypocritical. I stutter and, look; I enjoy the class in which we do the most presentations. I don't think that would go over well. Or I'd come off as a masochist.

I look at Sloth, waiting for her to go. She's staring at me in what looks to be shock. I don't know why. I haven't done anything particularly brilliant, just stuttered through another introduction. And it's not like she hasn't heard me stutter before. Sloth swallows then looks up.

"I'm Sloth. Don't ask," she drawls. "I stutter and I'm in drama."

…

Mechanical Aspects (1-10, 10 being the highest):

Areas that the Writer did extremely well at:

Areas that need work:

Chapter Question: What'd you think of the Mystery Stutterer? Oh yeah, and would you prefer longer chapters with fewer updates or short chapter with more updates? OR do you not care as long as it's good writing and I don't disappear for five months again?


	8. Chapter 8

The only reason this is up is because I've been bored out of my mind and I stayed up till like 1:30 so I could finish it

The only reason this is up is because I've been bored out of my mind and I stayed up till like 1:30 so I could finish it. It's 12 pages long, so you're getting 2 extra pages. And it's a quick update. Moreover, the current word count is enough to put me in the 4O,OOO+ word, Ed, Envy, Romance, All rating, English category. Not that I'm keeping track or anything.

This chapter was very easy to write. My strategy of spending the hour between 5:OO and 6:OO pm working on Stuttering Toward Ecstasy is working. Basically, I do nothing but work on this for the whole hour. Even if I don't feel like it. I'll just stare at the computer screening, not getting up until the hour ends or I decide that anything is better than boredom. So it's pretty much saying to my muse, "come up with something or we sit here and do nothing for an hour."

Oh and just because I want you all to know, it's incredibly smoky outside thanks to all the forest fires (guess which state I live in!). I can't see the blue sky at all. Of course, it could be overcast, but I wouldn't know that. I can see the smoke in my backyard. I think the air is currently considered unhealthy or whatever the rating below Hazardous is. This of course means that I'm not allowed to go running. I have missed at least six days of cross-country training. I haven't run for 8 straight days. My coach said that missing two days in a row was really, really, really bad. But we're getting a gym membership soon, so it's all good.

And I'm going to run a triathlon around Labour Day.

Disclaimer: I don't own AIM, I'm not Laura Ingalls Wilder, and I don't own FMA.

http : / w w w . mnsu . edu / comdis / kuster / Therapy W W W / susca / msusca . html (remove the spaces and that's the website from which I got the therapy program from. I chose it because it was one of the few out there that I could find that didn't involve an electronic thing and was a complete outline. If the link isn't working Google Michael Susca and it's the subpage on the first thing that comes up. It's working noting that I don't own his ideas either. )

Vocab for the Chapter:

Head voice: called falsetto in males, for girls it's voice used to go really high. It's breathy and is more towards the back of the throat.

Chest voice: It's the voice most often in musicals. It's pretty much the voice you use to talk and it's right in the front of the mouth. It has more strength and projects better.

The transition between the two voices is called the break. Amy Lee is an example of someone with a weird, but awesome voice. She goes head in her chest voice and low in her head voice. Lithium is done pretty much in her head voice. During the last part, when she repeats "lithium," she uses her chest voice. I think.

I'm actually not sure if the sustained head voice that Sloth uses is possible. It may be, but I wouldn't recommend it. It works, in theory, because it's like she's singing and it's a different breathing/voicing than regular speaking.

…

I'm stunned.

Sloth Peccato, stutterer.

That just doesn't go well. It's like saying, Edward Elric, public speaker. It just doesn't make sense.

The room has broken out in whispers. The whispers are funny. They're filled with halts, stutters, and repeats. Apparently I'm not the only one who can't believe Sloth stutters.

"Well, now that that's done," Izumi says, rising with file folders in hand. "I'm going to put you in groups based on your disfluency and the severity of it. We'll start off with some basic group or individual exercises."

As Izumi makes her way around the room, the whispering dies down. I wait for Izumi to reach me. I'm normally in the group of the most severe stutters. The other kids don't block as often as I do and it's never as painful for them. Or they don't trip up on words, they just repeat themselves. It was a lot worse in elementary school. There I was thrown in with the kids who had minor problems. Like there was a girl who couldn't say the 'v' in river, a boy who couldn't say the 'sph' in sphere, and just things like that. The worst part was that most of the students _enjoyed _it.

I didn't. I was always the worst no matter what group I was put into. It was horrible. They all had these minor problems that they didn't even get teased about, their friends just corrected them. The only boy I didn't mind being partnered with was Devon. The problem with that was he was the reason most of the girls were in speech therapy. Devon was considered by a lot of the girls to be 'hot' and they would do anything, even fake a speech problem, to spend an hour with him. Needless to say, they weren't very pleased when I ended up becoming Devon's permanent partner.

Fortunately, the therapist was an understanding woman and referred me to Izumi.

…

When Izumi reaches me, Sloth is trailing behind her. I look up, puzzled. If Sloth is my group, then we either stutter exactly the same way or she stutters as bad as I do.

"Sloth," Izumi says. "You're going to be with Edward Elric."

Sloth nods. I smile at her and she gives me a small wave.

"You two have any classes together?" Izumi asks.

"English and History," I say, quickly. Izumi raises an eyebrow. I shrug. I don't normally talk for other people, but I owe Sloth for all those times she's saved me during presentations.

"Good, now let's move to the back so that Rose's group has room," Izumi says. I quickly gather up my stuff and follow Izumi to one of the back tables. My table wasn't that crowded, but Izumi likes to have us spaced out. I think that it's so we don't hear each other and get distracted. Though, with Sloth, it might be that Izumi doesn't want to risk even the possibility of anyone teasing her. Smart, considering the whispers.

"Here is good," Izumi says when we reach the last table. It's in the corner of the room and far away from pretty much everybody. "I'm going to look into the possibility of using some of the back rooms."

"I'm fine," Sloth says, sitting down.

"Sloth, do you mind waiting while I talk to Ed," Izumi asks, looking at me. I gulp. Izumi is going to find out how much I've regressed since school started and summer therapy ended. And she's really not going to like all the habits I've picked up or how avoidance of some words is second nature.

"No," Sloth says, getting up to move somewhere.

"Oh, you don't have to move," Izumi says motioning Sloth to sit down. Sloth turns to me with a look of desperation on her face.

"I don't mind, really," I say, smiling. I trust you. You've never made fun of me for stuttering, you've always waited for me, and you've never finished words for me. Why should I mind if you listen to my treatment?

I don't say that. It's too much and I would sound too admiring. Sloth doesn't look like she wants to be revered or admired at all right now. So, I keep my mouth shut. Izumi take a seat at the edge of the table, facing me. Sloth remains seated across from me, but she's fidgeting nervously. I don't blame her.

"So, Ed," Izumi says, laying her folders on the table. "I went to a seminar this summer and one of the pathologists had an interesting treatment program that I thought you might be interested in."

I nod.

"The first part is pretty simple, I just need you to write down all the times you avoided a word or used a substitution today," Izumi says in her quiet intense voice. I stare at her. She smiles and hands me a piece of binder paper.

She knows. She has to know that there is no way that it's going to fit on one sheet of paper. She's just waiting to see if I'm going to own up to it or if she's going to have to drag it out of me.

"I think I'm going—I think I'll need more than one piece," I say, avoiding eye contact.

"Thought so," Izumi says. "And you can start with the one you just used."

Dammit. I'd forgotten how close to psychic that woman is.

"Right," I mutter and focus my attention on the paper. "Should I write down when I st-st-st t-t-t-stutter as well?"

"No," Izumi says, "Just when you used a substitute or avoided a word."

"Do dreams count?" I ask, remembering the first part of my dream.

"Yes."

Well, I guess I _didn't _use avoidance or substitution in the dream. I just stuttered.

"So, Sloth, according to your file you've been stuttering since kindergarten, participated briefly in one of the school run programs before switching to private sessions, and then it all ends suddenly during the summer before middle school?" Izumi questions. I try to focus on my list, but I can't help overhearing.

"That is correct," Sloth says in her low drawl.

"What happened then?"

_I may have said "the kitchen clock is a couple minutes ahead" instead of saying five, _I write, trying to tune out Sloth's voice. I fail.

"I signed up for drama and the first play was a musical," Sloth begins. Her eyes flick towards me. I continue with my list.

"And…" Izumi prompts.

I wonder if just not talking counts as avoidance.

"I took singing lessons during the summer," Sloth says, anxiously. "And I—well, my voice teacher discovered that I didn't stutter at all when I sang in my head voice—you know what that is?"

Out of the corner of my eye I catch Izumi nod.

"Well, she and I worked together on really strengthening my head voice, so I could sing most of the musical songs in it. After that I tried to see if I could talk in my head voice without stuttering."

I scribble down more cases of avoidance.

"How'd that work?"

Stop eavesdropping Ed. It's not polite.

_Avoided Envy's question of whether I wanted to go first or second._

_Asked him what classes he was in, not which ones he was taking. _

_Avoided naming my favorite Evanescence songs, this really shouldn't count as I ending up stuttering Like You anyways._

"It worked as long as I could see people or wasn't caught completely off guard."

"So, you'd stutter if you talked on the phone or if a boy asked you out?" Izumi questions.

I can't help but tune in. Judging by Russell's 'pale, sexy, Italian woman' comment in History, he's going to be asking Sloth out pretty soon. Any information of her possible reaction will be an asset to him. Moreover, it will lower the chances of him screwing up, which will inevitably lead to him sobbing on my shoulder.

"Phone, yes. Boys, not unless I wasn't suspecting it or actually liked him," Sloth answers, smiling a bit more confidently.

"And finally, can I ask you to use your chest voice?"

_Pointed at the questions on the board instead of saying "The Law of Falling Bodies."_

_Didn't explain my calculations to my lab partner, just showed him my paper. _

_Asked Envy which he wanted instead of—you know what, that's too embarrassing Izumi and you're going to take it the wrong way, so I'm not going to say what I was going to say, just that I didn't say it. _

"Alright. I-I-Iya-I-uh-uh-uh-uh-huh-huh-huh."

I stop writing. Sloth sounds like she's hyperventilating or choking back sobs or—or beginning to block. She gasps for breath. I look down and close my eyes. I want to breathe for her or lend her my voice, but that wouldn't help matters. She's blocking and I block too and I can't breathe then either.

"I," she finally stammers out. And it's a dry, hoarse sound. "I have trouble with words like and and and and y-y-y-y-you. I-Iya-Iya-Iya I uh ah-ah-ahlso suck at transitions."

"Hmm, well, I'd like you to get used to stuttering a bit more before we decide on a treatment program," Izumi says kindly. "Is there anywhere you'd be comfortable stuttering?"

"Home's not so bad. And and and Iya-Iya-Iya-I I uh guess winterguard practice," Sloth says, staring at her lap.

"Alright," Izumi says, patting Sloth's shoulder. "I'd like you to try using you chest voice for talking at home tonight."

Sloth nods, visibly relieved that it's only at home.

"Now, Ed," Izumi says rounding on me. "Are you done yet?"

"No," I reply.

"How far are you?" She asks, looking at my paper. I'm already on the backside.

"End of siss-ssis-sseh-second period," I stutter. Izumi sighs.

"Right, well, I'd like you to stop using all those avoidances and substitutions," Izumi says. I gulp. This is not going to be pretty.

"Why?" I ask.

"Ed, when you have to think about exactly what you're going to say before you say it, you put a lot of extra stress on yourself. And then," she prompts.

"I ssst-stst-stutter even more," I mutter and fight the urge to roll my eyes. We've been over this about a billion times.

"Exactly," Izumi says. "So the first part of the program is to eliminate all of the cognitive secondary mechanisms."

"What's the next part?" I ask. So far this new program sounds like most of the other ones I've tried.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Izumi says mysteriously. I glare at her. I hate it when people don't tell me everything. "Anyways, I'd like you two to spend the rest of the period talking about how you feeling when you stutter and what it feels like when you use a cognitive secondary mechanism—"

"What is that, exactly?" Sloth interrupts.

"Oh it can be anything. Like planning your sentences so you avoid your stutter words or using words like alright and okay instead of fine or using your head voice instead of your chest voice. Anything like that."

"Oh," Sloth says.

"Yes. So just talk about how it feels when you use those, whether they work or not, m'kay?" Izumi finishes. "Oh, and Ed? You're team leader."

I stare at Izumi as she walks away. This has to be the first time I've been put in a leadership role, anywhere. It makes sense though. I'm the one who's most comfortable with stuttering. But it's still a slight shock.

"Sss-ss-so," I bite my lip. I don't want to say 'Sloth' but I'm supposed to be setting a good example. I stop chewing my lip. Might as well. "Siss-sis-ssssl-slll-llll-llllah-loth, do you want tt-ttt-tto go f-f-f-f-first or ss-s-sssecond?"

Sloth stares at me for a moment before answering.

"Yy-y-y-you go first," she says finally.

"Um. Well, I don't lllllike it when I st-st-stutter," I say.

"Who does?" Sloth says with a rueful smile.

"I f-f—ff-fff-f-feel…" Stupid, like an idiot, like everyone's staring at me. Even if I wanted to I can't avoid stuttering. "…st-st-stupid and lll-ll-like everyone's llll-lll-llllooking at me. You?"

"I-Iya-Iya I uh don't like it either. I-Iya-Iya-Iya-I-I—it's just at home, and and and when I-Iya-Iya-I uh talk on the phone. But even when I-I-I-Iya-Iya I uh stuttering at school I-I-I-I-I-Iya-Iya-Iya I uh hated it," Sloth stops. She's breathing heavily and I wonder how it must feel to go back to stuttering after four years of relative freedom.

"What happened when you st-st-sss-sst-stst-stopped st-st-stst-stuttering at ss-ss-school?" I ask. People would've had to have noticed.

"Nothing. Not many people from my elementary school went to my junior high. And and and besides most of them and I-I-I-I Iya-Iya-Iya I uh think most of them just uh-uh-uh-huh-huh-huh—uh-assumed that I-I-Iya-Iyah-Iya I uh got cured over the summer or something," Sloth says, before meeting my eyes. "So what uh-uh-uh-about y-y-you? What's it like when y-y-you try to uh-uh-ah-avoid something?"

Which part? There's the fact that coming up with sentences, reviewing, and revising them takes time. The conversation generally moves right by before I can come up with a good reply. Or when I'm forced to say something that changes the meaning of a sentence. Or when I realize that I can't avoid stuttering. They all suck.

"Not good," I settle for saying. "I can't always avoid the words and s-ss-ssometimes it t-tt-takes t-too llllllong and people just assume that I don't have anything t-to ss-sss-say."

"Oh. Y-you you like Ceramics?"

"No, not really. I mean, I llllike English better, but it's kind of hypocritical, you know, 'cause of all the presentations."

"I-I-I-Iya I uh I uh like drama," Sloth reminds me. Her face is crimson and she looks tortured. "Uh-uh-Iya I uh _hate_ stuttering."

"Is not using your head voice any better?" I ask. I can't see why she'd want to re-learn how to talk without stuttering. Wasn't her method working perfectly fine?

"Y-y-yes. No, I-I-I-Iya- I uh don't know," Sloth says. "It doesn't work ah-ah-all the time and it's _hard_. Stuttering's not any easier, but at least I-I-I-Iya I uh can fix it this way, maybe."

I nod. But I still can't help but wonder what it's like not to stutter.

…

After Speech I wave goodbye to Sloth and walk over to Ceramics. Russell's still in the room, packing up his stuff. I walk over to him.

"Hey, Russell," I say, plunking my backpack down by my seat. He jerks.

"Hello yourself," he mutters, shoving more stuff into his backpack.

"Bad day?" I ask.

"Larry wasn't here today."

"Come again?"

"Larry and I are the only guys at this table. The rest are freshmen girls, giggly freshmen girls."

"S-ss-sucks ff-fff-ff-for you," I mutter, trying to ignore the staccato sounds of my voice. Look, Izumi, I'm not using avoidance or substitution.

"Thanks for your sympathy," Russell says, scowling.

"Can't you just t-t-tell them that you've already decided who you're going t-to ask?"

"Are you kidding me? If I did that, they'd dive in for the kill! They'd want to know who it was, what I was going to wear, what _she_ was going to wear, how I was going to ask her, everything!" Russell turns to me with a frantic look in his eye. "Bad enough that they're giggling at me, that last thing I need is them giving advice."

"Oh, and Russell."

"Yeah?"

"You're going t-t-to be llllate ff-fff-f-for Math, if you don't hurry."

"SHIT!"

…

Ling takes forever to show up. I fidget nervously in my seat. I hope what Winry says isn't true and that he won't hate me. Not that he wouldn't have a good reason for it. I just hope he can forgive me.

"Hey," I say when Ling sits down. He grins at me.

"Hi Ed," he says. I can't figure out why he's smiling. What does he know that I don't?

"Hey, I'm s-ss-ss-sorry about yesterday in the car," I say quickly.

"Hmm?" Ling asks, glancing at the blackboard. Today we're going to be watching a movie or something. So there's no need to have clay out. Instead the teacher has handed out a movie-study sheet. I glare at it. For some reason, Mr. Stevens seems to believe that he's teaching AP Ceramics and that people are actually interested in ceramics. There is the stray art student, but most people just want to pass the class.

"Winry was kind of pissed when I asked her when she was going t-to ask Russell to the dance," I clarify.

"Oh, well it's not like she's going to ask him this year," Ling says reaching for a study sheet. "Ugh, can you believe we're watching another movie?"

"You don't care about that?" I ask.

"No, why would I? I mean, it's a known fact that women cannot resist the sexy charms of Asians, like myself, indefinitely. She'll see the light, eventually."

I stare at Ling. I can't believe Winry managed to freak me out about this. Ling is such an utter optimist that he would never let anything, even the truth, stand in the way of his reality.

"But, really, was she mad about it?" Ling asks, hopefully.

"Oh, you have no idea," I mutter as the movie starts.

…

I blink quickly as I walk out of the room. The Ceramics movie was absolutely mind-numbing. Even Ling could barely keep his eyes open. Whoever holds the rights to it should stop marketing it as an educational device and consider selling it as a sleep aid.

I walk over to the front of the school and wait for Dad.

Al practically bounces over to me and it takes a moment before I realize he's dragging a dark haired boy with him.

"Hi Ed! This is Wrath!" Al says when he reaches me. He looks so thrilled. Wrath, on the other hand, just looks nervous. He keeps trying to edge away from Al, but Al has his hand firmly clamped to Wrath's wrist.

"Hi Wrath," I say. He looks up and I notice that his eyes, like Envy's, are purple. However, unlike Envy's, Wrath's are a dark violet.

"Are you sure this is going to be alright with your parents?" Wrath asks, plucking at his baggy pants with his free hand.

"Mom's out of town," Al says, grinning devilishly.

"I don't understand," Wrath says.

"Don't worry, nobody understands until it's t-too lllate," I mutter. Al shoots me a dark look. Wrath looks at me nervously. I sigh. Dad's late and Al, as busy as he is trying to make a good impression, doesn't seem all that eager to explain. Not that I would be, if it were Envy. But Al doesn't have any reason to be nervous around Wrath; after all, he's just a friend.

"Llllet's just ss-ss-say that Dad owes Al," I explain.

"Al, what's going?" Wrath asks again, more impatient this time. "And would you let go of my hand?"

Wrath blushes as he says the last part. Mentally, I slap my forehead at Al's social obtusity. Honestly, doesn't he know that people, especially guys, don't hold hands unless they're going out?

"No," Al replies simply. Wrath sighs and looks away. I roll my eyes.

"But I don't have my stuff," Wrath complains, taking another approach. Al frowns. He obviously hadn't considered this before.

"Well, we can just swing by your house, can't we?" Al says. Wrath looks at me, hoping to find sympathy or an escape route. I shrug. I have enough problems on my own without becoming involved with Al's.

I look across the parking lot. Envy's over there with his friends. Apparently, they're waiting for Roy or something. The girl who was talking to Envy before English is there. Envy is laughing at something she said and he's gorgeous. And suddenly, he stops and looks at me. I stare, transfixed. He grins and waves. I smile back. Maybe, maybe he'll come over and say hi and I'll—and I'll mess it up somehow.

"ENVY!" Wrath yells suddenly. I cringe. Al winces. Envy does a double take. I don't think he expected Wrath to be over here, much less holding Al's hand.

"C'MERE!" Wrath bellows again. Al looks like he's about to say something, but he doesn't. I glare at Wrath. Sure his brother is across the parking lot, but he doesn't have to yell that loudly.

Envy shrugs and saunters over.

It's all I can do to stop myself from drooling. Envy walks like a supermodel.

"Yes, Wrath," Envy says lightly, eyeing Wrath and Al's respective wrist and hand. He looks at me, I shrug again. With Al, holding hands means precisely one thing: I don't want to let you get away. It doesn't have to have any romantic connotations. It doesn't mean he likes you. Once I saw him holding the hand—well, wrist—of the boy he planned to beat up. Apparently Al was leading him to someplace where no one would catch them fighting.

"Um, Al asked me to spend the night and I don't know if Mom will—"

"She's going to say yes," Envy says, looking at Wrath puzzled. Al glares at Wrath, who tries to extricate himself out of Al's viselike grip.

"Could I get a ride home with you to—"

Wrath is interrupted by the sound of squealing tires and swearing.

Dad has arrived.

He pulls up by us and kills the engine. He glances at me and then looks pointedly at Envy. I blush. Fortunately, before Dad can do anything stupid, like invite Envy over for dinner, he catches sight of Al and Wrath. Wrath turns a brilliant crimson color and Al stares defiantly at Dad.

"Dad, this is Wrath, he's spending the night," Al states, daring Dad to object. He doesn't.

"Oh, is that alright with his parents?" Dad asks, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, it is, Mr. Elric," Envy chimes in. Wrath glares at him. "I can bring his stuff by later, if you want. Like around six?"

I want to groan. We eat dinner at six. There is now a 100 chance of Dad asking Envy to dinner. This has not been my day. This hasn't been my week. It probably isn't going to be my month either. I sigh. The not-so-dark side is Mom's not here.

"That'd be great," Dad says. "If you're going to come around that time than you might as well stay for dinner."

"Alright," Envy agrees, smiling normally for once. I resist the urge to strangle something. Dinner is going to suck. Especially because Dad can't cook to save his life, let alone my love life.

"Oh, and nice car," Envy says. Dad beams. I sigh loudly. "See you at six!"

Envy grins manically at me before he walks away. I smile back. It's impossible not too, not when his cheeks are pink like that. Envy's blushing. Somehow that thought makes me smile all the more.

"Put the packs in the truck," Dad says. Al gleefully takes Wrath's backpack for him. I roll my eyes. He doesn't have to be so happy about the fact that Wrath won't bolt. (Unless Wrath doesn't have anything important in his pack. Then Al's just screwed.)

"Al, get in ff-fff-first," I say, taking charge of the seating situation. Al gives me an evil look and reluctantly climbs in. I sit down next to him. He opens his mouth to protest.

"Wrath, you s-sit on Al's llllap," I say. Wrath stares at me as if I've grown an extra head. I raise an eyebrow at him. He looks around, then gingerly gets in. I fasten the seatbelt around all three of us.

…

The ride home is far from comfortable. Dad's driving is exacerbated by the traffic. Al spends the entire ride moaning, groaning, and giving Wrath the entirely wrong idea. Wrath looks at me with an odd look on his face and I mutter something about Al getting carsick. Wrath, meanwhile, turns faintly green and goes rather quiet. I just sigh and wait for it to be over.

Once we're home Dad nearly drives off with our backpacks still in the trunk. Only a quick protest from Al saves them. Dad and Al then proceed to have an argument over what dinner is. Dad argues for Chinese take-out while Al demands that he be allowed to make dinner. I guide a dazed and confused Wrath to the front door and assure that, no, it doesn't happen all the time and yes, all of our neighbors think we're insane. I let us both in and Wrath follows me to the kitchen. He fidgets nervously when I rummage through the cabinets looking for something to eat. I sigh. I hate making conversation with unfamiliar people. But at least Wrath knows how to act around a stutterer. After all, Sloth's one.

I still can't get over the shock of that. It's just so bizarre, I think as my fingers touch the edge of the Sweet And Salty box. I grin. Food at last. I pull out three bars.

"Want one?" I ask Wrath. He jumps and looks up, uncertainly.

"Um, sure," he says, hesitantly. I toss him one and he fumbles the catch. "Is your brother always like this?"

"No," I say carefully, resisting the urge to scream 'I'm neutral, like Switzerland.' I don't involve myself in Al's affairs and he generally returns the favor. "But, if you think this is bad, wait until you s-ss-see him on a sugar high."

Wrath blanches.

"He—he's not joking—this isn't part of some stupid prank?" Wrath asks, looking at me worriedly. I wonder why he trusts me, if he doesn't trust Al. It can't be because of Envy and whatever he feels about me. Maybe it's because Sloth thinks I'm a decent human being. Or because I haven't started a malicious rumor about Envy after everything.

"No," I say again. "Al pranks precisely three people: me, Dad, and Russell."

"Oh," Wrath says and stares at his feet. I finish eating my peanut bar and toss the wrapper in the garbage under the sink. I wait for Al to come in.

"Ha! I win! Dad said we could—"

"Think RAPIDLY!" I yell and chuck the Sweet And Salty bar in front of Al's knees. He dives for it and manages to catch it.

"I own the universe," he says, rising from the carpet to enter the kitchen. I roll my eyes. Al has supernaturally good reflexes. It's one of the reasons he's good at pretty much every single sport he's ever tried.

"Dad s-said we could?" I prompt Al.

"Oh yeah! We get to make dinner. I figure it'll be okay if we start it at like four thirty," Al says and looks at me.

"Don't worry, I won't help," I mutter, preparing to leave the kitchen.

"No, you have to supervise him," Wrath says, with, surprisingly, a smile. I raise an eyebrow. "Last week he managed to torch the Biology project and we weren't even working with fire."

Al glares at Wrath. I smirk. I am definitely going to bring this up next time Al insults my kitchen skills.

"Alright," I say and leave the kitchen. Al's talking excitedly about photos or something and Wrath is listening.

…

The instant that I sign into AIM, I'm bombarded with IM's from all sides.

**LuminousLight:** I have no chance at grandchildren do I?

**WinryTheRiveter:** srry Ed

And most intriguingly, an IM from xSexyPalmTree.

**XSexyPalmTree:** Hey

I sigh. So much for studying or homework.

**Stutterbug:** Dad, aren't you supposed to be working?

**LuminousLight:** Yes, but the lack of future grandchildren troubles me.

**Stutterbug:** Why? Envy's a girl.

I smirk as I type that. Al's not the only one who enjoys pulling Dad's leg every now and then.

**LuminousLight:** WHAT?!

**Stutterbug:** Just kidding! But you know, just because Al was holding Wrath's wrist doesn't mean they're going to go out

**LuminousLight:** Yeah right.

**Stutterbug:** Al holds everybody's hand, whether they like it or not. And besides, there's such thing as adoption. And you really should be working.

**LuminousLight:** Fine. You win. But let me say this. Envy seems like a nice guy.

**Stutterbug:** You say that only because he likes your car.

**LuminousLight has signed off.**

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Dad is so off-base some times. Al is not interested in Wrath that way. Wrath probably just had the bad luck to look extremely lonely and interesting. Then BAM! Al just glommed on to him and has been flustering Wrath ever since. The whole scenario is nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, that how Al makes a lot of his friends.

**Stutterbug:** Winry, don't worry. I'm not mad.

**WinryTheRiveter:** good because Russell's being an idiot

I brace myself. Now she's going to rant to me about Russell. The xSexyPalmTree window flashes orange. I wonder who has that username. It can't be Envy. There's no way he'd pick a name like that.

**Stutterbug:** Right

**WinryTheRiveter:** he is. But more importantly what does ling like?

**Stutterbug:** his car, teasing me about Asian sexiness, and Chinese takeout leftovers.

**WinryTheRiveter:** Lunch food wise?

**Stutterbug:** Mexican food and coffee

**WinryTheRiveter:** thnx!

**WinryTheRiveter has signed off.**

I stare at the screen puzzled. What was that about? I push those thoughts away and instead open the IM from xSexyPalmTree.

**xSexyPalmTree:** Ed, it's me.

**xSexyPalmTree:** Envy, because I'm guessing you can't read minds.

**Stutterbug:** hey. Interesting name you've got there.

**xSexyPalmTree:** Envy?

**Stutterbug:** no, sexy palm tree.

**Stutterbug:** It's not something I'd expect of you.

**xSexyPalmTree**: Shut up. I could say the same thing about your name. How'd you choose it anyways?

**Stutterbug:** long story. You tell yours I'll tell you mine?

**xSexyPalmTree:** You assume there's a story. But you're right, there is. So, you first? Why pick a username you can't say easily?

**Stutterbug**: I have a fatal attraction to S? But no, stutterbug was one of my dad's nicknames for me. My mom hated it. Something about it encouraging my stuttering or cementing my identity as a stutterer. But I like it. It's nice, like katydid

**xSexyPalmTree:** or flutterbudget

**Stutterbug:** Yes, though I never would have pegged you for a Little House On The Prairie fan.

**xSexyPalmTree:** Shut up. You've (obviously) read them too.

**Stutterbug:** point. Now what's yours?

**xSexyPalmTree:** Less cute and touching. When I first started dyeing my hair, Greed, my older brother, said I looked like a palm tree. I think I cried about that (not where he could see me). I was six. But my family's tossed around plenty of nicknames (fern, pineapple top, Christmas tree you will never see me in a red shirt, I assure you, moss head…).

**xSexyPalmTree:** I got into an argument with Greed over it once and I remember yelling 'Fine I may be a palm tree, but at least I'm a sexy one!' And I've been using it as an online name ever since.

**Stutterbug:** Wow. You're right. Less cute and touching.

**Stutterbug:** So, is your brother always so distrustful or is Al just special that way?

**xSexyPalmTree:** Let's just say that it's amazing Wrath didn't bolt for it.

**Stutterbug:** I think Al's hand had something to do with that.

**xSexyPalmTree:** Are you kidding me? Wrath knows karate, he could've gotten away if he wanted to. But I think your brother runs faster and he knows how to tackle people.

No. It's not that. If Wrath had tried to make a run for it Al would've done something mortifying. You see, Al has been known to kiss unsuspecting people as a way to immobilize them. It's frighteningly effective.

**Stutterbug:** But why is Wrath so paranoid?

**xSexyPalmTree:** It's not paranoid if they're after you.

**xSexyPalmTree:** But it's a long story. You should ask Wrath tomorrow, when you spend the night.

I blush. I'd nearly forgotten about that.

**xSexyPalmTree:** you are going to spend the night, right?

**Stutterbug:** yes. Why are _you_ so paranoid?

**xSexyPalmTree:** I'm not paranoid. Why would I be paranoid?

The urge to type, 'I don't know, you tell me' is there. But that would be extremely immature. Besides, it's not like I don't have an idea of why. It'd just be nice to hear it from Envy instead of everyone else.

_Isn't that a little unfair? Expecting him to make a move on you with all the encouragement you've given him._

I ignore the voice. Envy's braver than me. And I don't know anything. This is all just a hypothesis. Well, more of a theory really. It just hasn't become a law yet.

**Stutterbug:** Never mind. So what's been happening in English so far?

**xSexyPalmTree: **Well, you're going to need a copy of Dante's Inferno. When you're over at my house you should have Lust read it aloud to you. She's really good and Wrath's been begging her to read it to him. She hasn't started it yet.

**Stutterbug: **Okay. And day books?

**xSexyPalmTree: **Oh, those are two paragraph or so pieces of our most polished writing. He gives us a quote and we have to explain it. The first paragraph generally explains the quote and the second can tie in a personal experience, something we read, or an observation.

**Stutterbug:** Oh. What quotes?

**xSexyPalmTree: **Right. Well, they're given in sets of ten. So far we've only gotten the first five. They are: The unexamined life is not worth living—Socrates, Humankind cannot tolerate much reality—T. S. Eliot, Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting—William Wordsworth, As soon as one

**xSexyPalmTree:** sees with one's own eyes the whole, which one had hitherto only known in chaotic fragments, a new life begins—Johann Goethe, The moving finger writes; and having writ moves on: nor all they piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it—Omar Khayyam.

**xSexyPalmTree:** Don't worry about making sense of them, either. I think that's Kärki's plan. Give us really obscure quotes that mean nothing.

**Stutterbug: **Oh. Can I see some of yours?

I immediately regret hitting the enter button. Now he's going to think I want to copy them or something.

**xSexyPalmTree: **Umm. Well, you see I kind of haven't started them at all. Except for the first one, but that's the one that was actually due sorta. All I have are ideas on some. Sloth has more, but she's at practice and then she's dragging me to audition somewhere later.

**xSexyPalmTree:** But yeah. I think she's slightly more ahead than I. Though her number 3 degenerated into a rant about how everyone grows up, except for males, who, according to her, retain the maturity of a five-year-old forever.

**Stutterbug:** Oh. Okay.

**xSexyPalmTree: **I promise to explain better tomorrow. Really, I swear.

"Ed! You'd better come down! Al wants to make dinner!" Wrath yells.

**Stutterbug:** Well, I have to go. Apparently your brother doesn't trust Al's cooking skills and now I have to go supervise.

**xSexyPalmTree: **No. Don't go.

**xSexyPalmTree: **You like me best. Remember, I'm greener and sexier.

**Stutterbug:** Yes, yes you are.

**Stutterbug:** But even sexy palm trees have to eat, so bye.

And with that, I sign off of AIM.

…

So, yeah, long chapter, eh? I know I had planned to include dinner, but hey, at least Ed and Envy conversed. And he's coming over for dinner. Plus, this was like a lightning fast update. Too bad I'm moving to a remote tropical island without any internet for the next six months to research an obscure breed of spiders.

Just kidding. I'm not a bug person.

Chapter Questions:

Time: Does it bother you that it's still Thursday, considering it started on a Tuesday evening?

What do you think of Sloth's stutter?

Who will make the first move? Envy or Ed (or will gravity take care of it for them)?


	9. Chapter 9

This chapter features: snarky

This chapter features: bitchy!Ed, snarky!Al, bashful!Wrath, Carnuts!Hohenheim and Envy. The recipe for the spaghetti and meatballs can be found here: http : / find . myrecipes . com / recipes / recipefinder . dyn ? action display Recipe &recipe id 549791 (and if the link doesn't work, Google images for spaghetti and meatballs. It's the third image if you're using FireFox. )

The smoke is absolutely wretched. Ash is quite literally falling from the sky. It sucks. But yay for gym membership.

This chapter was betaed by Arathe. My usual betas are: recovering from a nervous break down, on vacation, not allowed on the computer, and the other three have mysteriously vanished. And no, I'm not exaggerating at all.

I don't own: 101 Dalmations, Lady and the Tramp,

Begin Chapter 9

…

"Ss-so what's dinner?" I ask. Al's wearing his frilly, floral, pastel colored apron. Wrath is sitting on the corner, staring at him. I roll my eyes. I swear, I know _girls _who are more masculine than Al.

"Well, Al wants to make spaghetti and meatballs, but that involves the stove," Wrath says, glancing warily at Al, who is now flipping through Mom's recipe books.

"Shut up. How was I supposed to know that whatever they use to pickle birds makes them extremely flammable," Al mutters, turning the page sharply. "Wrath, why don't you tell Ed what you want to make."

I raise my eyebrow. Al doesn't normally use that tone of voice with anyone, unless they've managed to insult his pride. Normally, he just becomes extremely uncooperative. Though, I guess it would be pointless to not cooperate with Wrath. Wrath doesn't seem to be the type of person to respond well to passive-aggressiveness. He seems like someone who would power cheerfully ahead.

"Macaroni and cheese," Wrath says simply, swinging his legs.

"From the box," Al says it like it's a curse.

"I thought we were out of that?" I ask.

"We were. Until Dad bought some," Al mutters wrathfully.

"Ah."

"Well, Ed?" Wrath asks hopefully. "Can we?"

Al glares at me and promises with his deceitfully innocent brown eyes that there will be blood if I don't see things his way. I'd risk it and ignore him, if not for the fact that Envy was going to be eating with us.

"Only if Al makes Oodles of Poodles and Noodles," I say. Al scowls. Oodles of Poodles and Noodles is part of our old made up language. Roughly translated it means Spaghetti and Meatballs _a la_ Lady and The Tramp.

"I hate you," Al mutters, blushing furiously. I fail to see how he can be embarrassed of Oodles of Poodles and Noodles when he's wearing a frilly apron and holds other guys' hands platonically.

"So, Macaroni and cheese it is?" Wrath says, not daring to believe his luck. Al glowers at me.

"Um, no," I inform Wrath. "That's not what it means at all."

Wrath looks more confused than ever.

"What Ed is trying to not to tell you, is that Oodles of Poodles and Noodles is code for—"

"Hey, don't refer t-to Mutterbutterutter as code. It was a llllanguage."

"Yeah, well, it's dead. Like Latin!"

"It is not dead. Those nuns were t-t-totally using it t-t-to t-talk about things they didn't want us t-to know in f-f-ff-front of us."

"You can't prove that!"

"Russell can!"

"Yes, Russell can prove it. Think about what that means, genius. Russell also thinks he can prove that vampires do exist," Al snaps at me. Wrath looks at us like we have spontaneously gone insane.

"Actually," I argue, "It's t-t-two entirely different things. T-to prove his point, Russell needs t-to f-f-ff-find a vampire, which is an unknown. T-to prove my point, all one needs is to hear the nuns t-talk in f-ff-front of kids and tt-t-translate the Lllllatin."

"Shut up and find the recipe."

I pull a stray page out of the back pocket of the binder.

"Here it is."

"You're both insane," Wrath mutters.

"You're related to Envy," Al retorts. Both Wrath and I bristle.

"What's that ss-sss-suh-sss-supposed t-t-tt-to mean?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Envy isn't exactly what normal people think of when they hear the word sane," Al says, giving me an odd look.

"And who is?" Wrath queries.

"Fletcher," Al replies simply. "He's sane."

"I don't know Fletcher," Wrath replies. His feet have stopped swinging some time during the argument and now Wrath stares at them. I wonder, briefly, if all Peccatos stare at their feet during moments of tension or if the trait is unique to Envy and Wrath.

"Err," Al says, faced with the sudden difficulty of finding the new gold standard for sanity. "Just imagine the complete opposite of Envy and Ed's lovechild and that should be about right."

I choke.

_Lovechild?_

Wrath snickers at the image.

"Can you imagine what it would look like?" Al says, walking over and resting a hand on Wrath's shoulder. He flinches slightly, but Al doesn't, or pretends he doesn't, notice it.

"Average height," Wrath says, smiling shyly.

"Black hair."

"Blond hair."

"But blond hair's a recessive trait," Al complains and I realize that this discussion of Envy's and my (im)possible lovechild is just a really twisted way of studying biology. I mutter darkly and go about getting the necessary ingredients out.

"I think Envy's dad might've had blond hair," Wrath says. "Besides, Ed obviously gets the genes from both sides of the family."

"What color eyes?"

"Hmm. The professor never did mention yellow eyes, or purple for that matter," Wrath says, pensively chewing a hangnail.

"Ed what color are your eyes?" Al asks.

"Hazel," I growl out.

"What color are your mom's eyes?"

"Green, and Dad's are pretty much the same as Ed's."

"They're gold too?"

"My eyes are HAZEL!"

"And Envy would be classified as what?" Al asks, ignoring the amount of force I use to slam the can of tomatoes down on the counter.

"I dunno, they both have weird eyes, so the kid would probably inherit that quality," Wrath says. "I'd say either one eye would be purple and the other gold-"

"HAZEL DAMMIT!"

"-or they'd be violet, with gold flecks around the middle," Wrath finishes, ignoring my outburst completely.

"Oh, that'd be pretty," Al coos admiringly. I snarl. Since when did I have a little _sister? _

"Here, hand me my sketch book and I'll draw the kids for you," Wrath says, taking a seat on the stool. Al hastens to obey. I duck my head behind a cabinet door to hide my flaming face. I just hope that Al and Wrath don't bring the looks of the possible _lovechildren _of Envy and me up during dinner. That would be absolutely mortifying.

I stomp over to the fridge and pull out an onion, the bread, an egg, and the hated white secretion of Bos Taurus.

"Ed are your earlobes attached or detached?"

"Detached," I answer shortly.

"Same as Envy's then."

I can't help but start to pay attention now. I've never really seen Envy's ears before. His hair does a pretty good job of covering them; even when he's forced to put his long hair in a ponytail, a good amount of long, wispy bangs covers his ears. I'm glad that Envy doesn't have attached earlobes, though. There's not much you can do with attached earlobes. You can't fidget with them, worry them between your fingers or teeth-

Not that I would do that or anything. You can't bite your own earlobe.

Or Envy's.

Well, _I_ wouldn't bite Envy's earlobe. Unless he bit mine or something.

I grab the black pepper, red pepper, bay leaves, parsley dust, and salt out of the spice cabinet. I did not just think about biting Envy's earlobe while he nibbled on mine.

I set the spices on the counter and turn around. I don't need Al or Wrath to see my face right now. They'd want to know why I was blushing so badly and I can't even think up a good lie to tell them. I grab the blue ceramic jar with holes in the sides. Hopefully, we're not out of garlic cloves.

"Okay, Al," I say as I try to fish the garlic clove out of its jar. "I have all of the ingredients on the counter."

"Right then, well you can just leave now," Al says vaguely.

"NO!"

"I don't see why you want him in the kitchen, Wrath," Al mutters looking a bit miffed. People don't question his cooking skills when Mom is gone.

"He can't be worse than you," Wrath says, setting his sketchbook down. "Now hand me the recipe."

Wordlessly I hand it over.

"Where's the pasta?" Wrath asks. Al glares at me and removes it from the cupboard.

"Okay, Ed, you can boil water, right?" Wrath asks.

"Yes."

"Don't count on it," Al mutters, sulkily.

"Fill this pot halfway full with water," Wrath says handing me a large pot from the pot rack.

"Al, set the oven to four hundred degrees. Ed, put the pot on the stove and turn on the burner."

I flip the burner on to high. This is honestly the most I've done in the way of cooking in years.

"Now put the lid on and wait till it boils."

"I'm going to go get my math homework," I say, walking out of the kitchen. I ignore Wrath's look of pleading. He shouldn't be so freaked out about being alone with Al. Besides, it's almost a proven fact that more time I spend around something cooking the more likely it is to go wrong.

…

When I'm up in my room I also grab my history book and some binder paper. It'd be just like Hughes to spring a quiz on us when we're doing a group project. I swear, it's almost as if he spends his nights laying awake plotting ways to make his quizzes extra unexpected.

I sigh and glance around the room looking for something else to do before going back downstairs. Al's slowly working himself into a really foul mood and I don't want to aggravate it. Fortunately, most of the incidents are canceling each other out. Spraying Dad helped with the whole morning issue. Wrath was with us for the second ride in the Corvette. And even though Wrath doesn't trust Al's cooking skills, Al still gets to cook dinner. But if I go back down, then everything gets thrown out of balance.

Normally I wouldn't care, but Envy's coming over and Al might decide to tease me about him or something worse to restore the "balance." I don't really believe in this balance Al goes on about. It sounds suspiciously like the theme of the third Star Wars movie. Al, of course, denies this and calls it equivalent exchange. I don't really understand it. Al says that in order to receive something you must give something and vice-versa.

This methodology has gotten him into a lot of fights, arguments, and trouble with Salvation Army representatives. Not to mention Mom. Her beef with it is that it takes the unconditional out of unconditional giving. I don't like it because it sounds like a sophisticated tit-for-tat methodology. And like Gandhi said, an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.

"ED!" Wrath bellows. "ARE YOU COMING DOWN?"

I sigh. So much for maintaining a balance.

"YEAH!"

I walk down the stairs slowly. If I can't escape it, I might as well procrastinate it.

…

"Ed," Wrath says when I reappear in the kitchen. I set my books down at the far end of the island. "Help Al make the meatballs."

I smile. The reason this dish got christened Oodles of Poodles and Noodles is the meatballs. Al and I had just watched 101 Dalmatians and we were helping Mom make spaghetti and meatballs. I think I was the one who suggested making the meatballs into dog shapes. Due to the texture of ground beef, we could only make poodle dogs. Mom made this big joke out of it and said "Oh my! We have oodles of poodles!" All of us had fun saying oodles of poodles. It's one of the best times I remember having with Mom and Al.

"What are you doing?" Al hisses at me in outrage. I look up from forming another poodle.

"Making meatballs," I reply.

"Stop it! We did that when we were five!"

"Ss-s-so?" I ask.

"It's embarrassing."

"Al, what's Ed doing with the meatballs?" Wrath asks.

"He's being incredibly immature!" Al says, getting up suddenly. "I can't believe you," he says to me before storming off, face red. I stare after him. Why does he care so much about what Wrath thinks?

"Did I? Was it something I said?" Wrath asks, timidly. He sounds extremely unsure of himself, as if Al's going to cancel the sleepover or something.

"Umm," I say and look at Wrath. What's so special about Wrath that's got Al bending over backwards to impress him?

"He's not—"

"No," I cut Wrath off before he can start to worry. Something tells me that it doesn't take much to make him panic. "Al's just trying t-to hard."

"Why?" Wrath asks, staring off in the direction that Al exited.

"I don't know, but f-f-ff-for ss-ss-some reason he's really trying to impress you," I stutter and hope that's Al sulking in his room and not eavesdropping somewhere.

"But why? Why me?" Wrath asks, looking extremely lost as he turns around to stir the sauce on the stove.

"I don't know," I say honestly. "How'd you guys meet anyways?"

Wrath laughs and says, "Well, we have three classes together, but I don't think he really noticed me until this week."

"S-sounds llllike him," I mutter. It's a typical Al move. He'll spend a couple weeks watching everybody in his classes before starting to get to know the more interesting ones. I think Wrath's the first prospective friend that Al considered worthy of extensive investigation this year.

"Yeah, we're labs partners for biology, he's in photography club, he keeps trying to talk to me, and now I'm here?" Wrath says, waving his arms about. I duck to avoid getting walloped by the spoon he's using to stir the sauce.

"Sorry about that," Wrath says. I shrug.

"Well, have you noticed him watching you intensely llllast week?" I ask.

"No," Wrath says, suddenly jumpy. "Was he?"

"Probably not," I say. "It's just that he normally watches his prospects before making a move on them."

"Prospect?" Wrath sputters, turning pink.

"Yeah," I say. "He llllikes t-to check out potential fff-ff-ffriends before getting t-to know them."

"Oh," Wrath says, abruptly turning back to the spaghetti sauce.

"Yes, he has this ss-sss-ssystem f-ff-ff-ff-f-for evaluating people. He's been complaining all year about how none of the people he's bothered getting t-to know are very interesting," I say and glance around the room, looking for Al. He's not lurking in any of the door ways, so I continue. "He normally doesn't make a move s-ss-so ff-f-f-fast, I guess he considers you pretty intriguing."

Wrath turns around to face me; his face is flushed from standing over the stove.

"Now, how do you feel about Envy?" Wrath asks, smiling.

"Wha-wha-huh?" I stammer out. Where did this come from?

"Do you like him?" Wrath prompts, looking far too pleased to be questioning me. I turn beat red. I may have inadvertently admitted it to Dad that I liked Envy's backrub. I may have enjoyed running my fingers through his hair in an entirely non-platonic way. I might have really enjoyed that dream. I might have relished the feeling of Envy sitting on me in Physics. I may love the feel of his hands. I may be willing to admit to myself that I like Envy, but I am _not _ready to tell Envy's brother any of this.

"What makes you think that?" I ask quickly. My lie is worthless. I know that my flame red face has given me away.

"You have to ask?" Wrath drawls, bemused. "But yeah, you do know that he likes you?"

My heart stops.

Envy.

Likes.

ME?!

A warm, pleasant, giddy feeling swells in my chest. I can't quite believe it, but it makes perfect sense.

He likes me. _He _likes me? He _likes _me? He likes _me_?

He, Envy Peccato, likes me, Edward Elric.

He likes me!

"Um, kind of," I whisper and look down. I can't stop smiling. "I just didn't have it confirmed, really."

"It's not like he's been particularly subtle," Wrath mutters. "Oh and don't tell him I told you that."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Tell who what?" Al interrupts. He's standing in the doorway of the TV room.

"Nothing!"

"Envy likes Ed."

I glare at Wrath. He doesn't need to repeat it. Al smiles viciously. I glance around for an escape route. I quickly run my meatball covered hands under the tap and wipe them dry on my pants.

"I'm going to go back upstairs," I say, dodging around the island and sprinting past the dining room. I'm not staying in the same room as Al when he looks that way. Especially not after I managed to 'embarrass' him and particularly not after I spilled his secrets. That's just asking for pain.

…

Once in the safety of my room, I realize that I have forgotten both my math book and history book. I research colonial Pennsylvania, but even that doesn't take up enough time. I sigh, might as well sign on to AIM and waste time.

**Stutterbug has signed in**

**xSexyPalmTree: **you're back!

**xSexyPalmTree: **Not that I've been waiting or anything.

**Stutterbug:** 'course not.

The thought _He likes me, he likes me_, repeats itself over and over in my head. I'm grinning too.

**xSexyPalmTree: **Yeah. Totally.

The sudden desire to flirt with Envy is there. Only thing is, I don't know how.

**Stutterbug:** Didn't you say something about an audition?

**xSexyPalmTree:** Yeah, I just got back.

**Stutterbug:** how'd it go?

**xSexyPalmTree:** Good, I think.

**xSexyPalmTree:** So, wanna give me directions to your house so I don't get lost?

**Stutterbug:** Well, you know where Ling lives?

**xSexyPalmTree:** No.

**Stutterbug:** Russell?

**xSexyPalmTree:** Nope

**Stutterbug:** Well, if you start at the high school go down El Monte until you reach Sheradin St. Then take a right there. Drive until you reach Maple Ave. Turn left there and go past the bridge until you reach Arcadian Dr.

**Stutterbug:** turn right there and make another right on to Laurel Ct. And we're 1067.

**xSexyPalmTree:** You can't say your address, can you.

It's not a question. I'm in awe of Envy. He is the most accepting, perceptive, and accommodating person I've met.

**Stutterbug:** yeah, some times I wonder if fate hates me. It'd explain a lot.

**xSexyPalmTree: **So, how's speech going?

**Stutterbug:** pretty good. It's nice to be back and I'm in a group with Sloth.

**xSexyPalmTree:** Very cool.

Dammit! The one time I actually want to flirt and there is no opportunity at all. I wonder if Envy's feeling half as awkward as I am.

**Stutterbug:** So, you like spaghetti right?

**xSexyPalmTree:** Yeah, it's awesome.

**Stutterbug:** That's good.

**xSexyPalmTree:** Why?

**Stutterbug:** Not telling. :)

**xSexyPalmTree: **No, Ed, tell me. Please?

**Stutterbug:** No.

**xSexyPalmTree:** But I'm cute O:-)

**Stutterbug:** Understatement, much? But don't you have to leave right now? It's like 5:45 and dinner's at 6:00…

**xSexyPalmTree: **Oh, right. Shit. See you soon, Edo-chan

**xSexyPalmTree has signed off. **

I smile. I still can't believe he likes me.

…

Envy shows up in a civilized, but ancient, Honda Civic. I watch from my bedroom as he pulls into the driveway. This car bears no resemblance to the sleek new Civics. Instead it looks like it came straight out of a 70's film. It's boxy and screams liberal environmentalist.

I count to ten before venturing downstairs. I refuse to run out and greet Envy like he's my significant other or something. I'm not desperate or obsessed.

If you obsess over not obsessing, does that still make you obsessed?

I walk out the door and try not to smile too broadly. I still can't believe he likes me. It's amazing, just knowing it. Utter bliss.

"Hey, Envy!" I say, walking over to his car. He closes the door behind him and looks up, surprised.

"Er, hi Ed," he says and looks down quickly.

"Come on in," I say. Taking a leaf out of Al's book, I impulsively grab Envy's hand, interlacing his fingers with mine. Envy's whole body stiffens and he sputters; but he allows me to lead him to the front door, where I let go of him to fumble with the door. I can't help it, Envy's standing perhaps a centimeter away from me and breathing softly in my ear. Maybe flirting wasn't the best of ideas, not if I can't take the heat.

I finally get the door open and walk inside. Envy follows. Wrath greets us happily.

"Where's my stuff?" he asks, eyeing our empty hands.

"In the car," Envy says, tossing Wrath the keys. Wrath grabs at them and misses; Al's sudden materialization by his side is the only thing that keeps Wrath upright. Blushing, he picks up the keys.

"Thanks," Wrath mutters dodging around Envy, who tries to tickle him.

"No problem," Envy calls after him.

"I'll go help him," Al volunteers. "Don't do anything that would frighten the horses."

I glare at him. That comment was completely unnecessary.

"I didn't know you had horses," Envy remarks. I'm going to kill Al.

…

Dad arrives late as usual. He rushes in and stashes something in the freezer. I hope it's not some exotic and illegal animal Dad bought. He's been known to do those sorts of things. To this day, I have no idea where he found a recipe for kangaroo meat, much less the actual kangaroo. It's not exactly a species native to New Hampshire.

Nothing compares to the live octopus he brought home. Mom shrieked loud enough to wake the dead when she reached in to the bowl to grab the supposed dead octopod and it grabbed her back. After that Dad was banned from buying live animals.

"So, Envy," Dad says, entering the kitchen after securing what ever he procured in the freezer. "Nice car."

It isn't a compliment. It's a sneering form of one-upmanship.

"I know," Envy says smugly. "It gets about forty miles to the gallon."

Dad glowers. The Corvette's mileage is not something to brag about. In fact, most Hummers get the same or better gas mileage. Given the fact that gas is over the four dollar and rapidly approaching five dollars, this is not a good thing.

"Mine's a convertible," Dad mutters.

"Mine's affordable," Envy returns.

"Mine's older."

"Mine's in one piece."

"Touché."

I roll my eyes. I have never had any interest in cars, much to my dad's disappointment.

"Would you guys get the plates out?" Al asks, ending Dad and Envy's car competition before it can reach the Is-Not Is-Too level, or worse, the What do you think, Ed/Al/Wrath level. That last one is to be avoided at all costs.

Everyone serves themselves and settles down at the table without any mishaps. Well, aside from Envy muttering something about safety standards and practicality and Dad giving him the death glare.

Envy sits next to me. Al sits across from me, with Wrath on his left side, across from Envy. Dad sits between me and Al, at the head of the table.

"It's edible," Dad pronounces after eating a few bites. Wrath looks downcast.

"I didn't make it," Al and I say at the same time. Dad look relieved.

"Oh, okay," Dad says, smiling through the spaghetti. "That's a relief."

"How bad are you guys?" Envy asks me and Al.

"Bad."

"He got a skillet stuck to the ceiling," Al says pointing at me.

"That's not-"

"And it stayed up there for like five years."

"Oh," Envy says returning to his pasta.

"You set the antique microscope on fire," Wrath says, gesturing at Al with his fork. Al blushes.

"How on earth do you set a microscope on fire?" Dad asks, staring at Al.

"I was just looking at this feather-"

"From the bird on display."

"How was I supposed to know the slide had a purpose or that whatever they used to treat the bird was highly flammable?"

"I hope I'm not getting charged for this," Dad mutters, twisting his fork around in the spaghetti.

"Nah, the teacher thinks it's his fault," Al says blithely.

"Wait till he discovers the feathers," Wrath mutters.

"Um, can anyone explain to me why this meatball look like a poodle?" Envy asks, pointing to a poodle shaped meatball.

"You made Oodles of Poodles and Noodles?" Dad asks, looking horrified.

"Yes," Al says reluctantly.

"And you used tomatoes?"

"Of course."

"There's a salmonella outbreak in the tomatoes!"

"Relax, Dad," Al says, "Mom buys local tomatoes."

"Still," Dad mutters and returns to his spaghetti.

"So, Oodles of Poodles and Noodles?" Envy says, looking at me.

"It's a llllong st-st-sst-ss-ss-ss-ss-st-story," I stutter, my face going red.

"Wanna tell me about it?" Envy says, still looking at me. The evening light does odd things to his light eyes. They are practically plum now, with dark shadows. I don't want to think about the setting sun's effect on my eyes. From past experience I know they'll be almost glowing.

"Llllater," I say, before leaning in and adding, in a whisper, "Al'll kill me if I s-ss-say it now."

"Gotcha," Envy says. My imagination insists that there is the slightest catch in his voice and that he's blushing. But it's probably just the way the light hits him. An optical illusion of sorts.

"So who made this?" Dad asks through a bite of spaghetti. I wince. Does he have to be so embarrassing. Imagining how much worse Mom would be doesn't help. Not with the way Envy is looking at Dad.

"I did," Wrath says quietly. He doesn't make eye contact with Dad. I don't blame him. Few people are willing to make eye contact with Dad. Mom says it's because of his unusual eyes, Al argues that Dad radiates a certain type of maniacal air, I blame his driving skills. Though, in this case, it might just be Wrath's shyness.

"You're a good cook," Dad says before shoveling in another bite. I cringe.

"It's okay, Ed," Envy whispers in my ear. I shiver. His breath is warm and his lips are close. It takes all my self control not to turn around and kiss him. As it is, I arch my neck towards him. "My dad's worse, he's Italian."

I nod shakily. I don't think I could ever seduce Envy. Within two seconds, he'd have the tables turned. I looked at him and smile.

"Thanks," I say. This time Envy is definitely blushing and he ducks his head to hide it.

…

It's like that for the rest of dinner. I try to flirt, fail inevitably, and Envy does whatever it takes to make me feel better. Dad makes inane comments and argues with Al. Wrath remains silent, aside from making the odd comment to Envy. For some reason Envy doesn't take kindly to these comments and spent a good part of the meal glaring at Wrath. Wrath didn't seem to mind. In fact, he found the whole thing rather amusing.

Al was worse, I think as I run water over the plates. He'd been listening far too intently and had lost enough arguments to Dad to be suspicious. I sighed as I put the plate in the dishwasher. Al was definitely gathering blackmail material and I don't want to know how he plans to use it.

I eventually finish with the dishes and head upstairs. I still have to finish the math homework I never started and read that chapter about the colonies for history.

…

The history goes by rather fast. It's not enjoyable. American Pageant, though on its twelfth edition, is still a relic and incredibly biased in favor of America. Therefore, the colonists are portrayed in the best light possible. Winry likes to remind me that I probably wouldn't notice these things if Hughes hadn't had the whole class write an essay comparing the first chapter of the American Pageant to the first chapter of A People's History of The United States.

The People's History is drastically different than the American Pageant. Howard Zinn would never refer to Christopher Columbus's three ships as a "cockleshell fleet," nor would he mention the mass extinction of the Indians Columbus came in contact with as a sort of historical footnote. Instead he details exactly how they were tortured, hunted, maimed, and worked to death. The abuse was so bad that Las Casas, a Spanish monk, was appalled. Spanish. These were the guys that burned people alive because they were 'witches.' So, if they thought it was bad…

Winry, determined as ever to be sensible, likes to point out that Zinn's book is too controversial (Russell says accurate) to be allowed in schools and that it would lead to a drastic increase in AP student suicides. At this point, Russell mutters about survival of the fittest and Winry starts eyeing her wrench ominously.

Even though I hate the way American Pageant sugar coats everything, Winry does have a point. Howard Zinn is the most depressing man alive. Reading his book will strip you of any illusions of America's greatness. It's like some crusty old man telling you that your dog died, Mummy doesn't love that drawing of God-knows-what you did in first grade, Daddy threw out that leaf impression mold you made him for Father's day, and your girlfriend was cheating on you with your brother and your best friend. That kind of depressing.

Naturally, Russell loves the book. I think it has more to do with the fact that he likes being an extremist and anti-authority than any actually belief. Me, I'm just waiting for Zinn to write something on how vampires don't exist. Of course, Russell's soul would probably break if he read it. Still, the look on his face.

I shut the book with a slam when I reach the end of the chapter. The math goes by faster, it's still logs and logs make sense to me. After I finish the homework, I consult my grade sheet, write the score at the top (15 out of 15), and tuck the assignment into the math book.

"ED!" Dad calls from downstairs. "AL! WRATH!"

I open my door, curious. It could be anything. I just hope it's not alive or poisonous. I cherish the hope that it's something normal. Like a cool show on TV or something we forgot to clean up.

"DESSERT!"

All hopes for normality die. There is, though it's most likely _was _ if I'm correct, nothing in this house that warrants being labeled "DESSERT!" The fruitcake from one of Dad's relatives does not count. Neither do cookies or granola bars. No, the thing that Dad smuggled into the freezer is dessert of some kind.

You may be wondering how weird frozen dessert can get. Perhaps you do not recall the kangaroo meat and the live baby octopus. Remember that those are only the tip of the iceberg. If you still don't think dessert can get all that strange, know this: Dad has served Al and I prune tarts, crab ice cream, Mämmi, Pulot Hitam, and Durian.

"LOOK, IT'S NOT ALIVE OR ANYTHING!" Dad shouts again. That's hardly reassuring.

"IS IT A MAMMAL?" Al asks, coming out of his room. I stand by the stairway. Wrath is looking at me confused. Apparently, he comes from a normal house and therefore assumes that food doesn't move.

"IT'S A PLANT!"

I breathe a sigh of relief. This rules out most of the stranger Japanese ice creams like whale, shrimp, and squid.

"ARE YOU COMING?" Dad asks.

"Yeah!" I yell and walk down the stairs. Wrath and Al follow.

…

End

(Yes, I am that evil)

So, has anyone actually eaten prune tarts, crab ice cream, Mämmi, Pulot Hitam, or Durian? I've eaten Mämmi (it's pronounced ma'am as in the opposite of sir, me as in the pronoun) in Finland and it was pretty good. Funny how less and less time is elapsing during the chapters….

Oh and if any of you guys are Canadian (preferably with good grammar and residing in BC) send me a message or email. I have about 3 Canadian stories in the works and I am detail orientated (obsessed some would say).

Review Questions:

Any areas that need improvement? Stuff that you would like to see more of?


	10. Chapter 10

Sorry about the long wait. My parents were getting a bit irritated that I wasn't doing anything but typing stuff in my room. I used this to spend the better part of three days with my friends. I rock at parent manipulation. Then I made an effort not to write as much because I felt that some of the characters were on the verge of getting OOC and I wasn't too happy with one of the chapters.

But yeah, then I had a week long ski camp, followed by a three-day-four-run running camp. I'm rereading Catcher in the Rye, I've finished The Scarlet Letter, and I need to read or spark note Huck Finn.

So, while I am sorry about the long wait, I'm not at all sorry about the length. You'll see why. The gloating almost cackling review responses from last chapter will all be explained.

And I really wanted to do a double update (2 chapters at once) because it'd be right before school starts and I won't get a chance to write much after that. But it didn't work out. But yeah, don't expect an update until around December. I'm serious. I _may _be able to update before then, but don't bug me.

This is why nobody's going to be all "Update now! Plz." My schedule is as follows:

AP Calculus (with the teacher who has all homework due the day of the test. I'm a chronic procrastinator.) [Which I ditched within a month, opting to take it at the university where it can't effect my GPA]

Econ (first semester)

AP English

Spanish 3 (with NOT-Applebe)

AP Chem (with the not-super-easy teacher. Which means I'll actually have to study)

Ceramics 2 (with the teacher who has to believe he's teaching AP Ceramics).

Then, I'm doing Cross-Country, which has practice every day after school.

So, I might be able to do an update after this before school really takes off. Don't hold your breath though. And then I might be able to start writing in November when Cross-Country ends. But then there's ski team but we have practices twice a week. Middle of December is really your best bet. Unless my family goes somewhere. But that's unlikely. After December, there's race season, which takes up all of my time. After that, there's track. I'll probably write more during track.

So basically, there's gonna be an update after this, one or two in November, more during Christmas break, then it might pick up around April/May, depending on senioritis and stuff. But June, June is good.

So yeah, I'm going to be a senior. No I don't know what I want to do for a career, yet. Or what college I'm going to go to.

Moreover, it's almost been a year since I started this!!!!!!!

[As you can see from the note, I've been done with this for a long time. However, I have extreme bad luck with betas. I am done with x-c, working on NaNoWriMo, college applications, and not failing AP Chem. I apologize for any weird symbols, my word program does not do .docx and this was received via email from ShindereraShinda, my beta who is not dead, yet. ]

Disclaimer: I don't own FMA, AIM, Raddison, Google Earth, and I'm not Terri Clark.

**Begin Chapter Ten**

"_Green tea ice cream?_" Wrath asks, staring at his bowl. Dad just smiles and sits down on the couch. Al sits next to Dad and looks expectantly at Wrath. Wrath eyes the brown chair in the corner.

I slide swiftly into the chair and draw my knees up. If Mom was here, she'd yell at me for having my feet on the furniture and then she'd make us eat at the counter. But Mom's not due back until Sunday and Dad doesn't really care about the fate of the ex-sit up chair (which has since been reupholstered).

"Don't worry," Al says, watching Wrath sit down gingerly on the couch. "It's practically normal."

"Normal?!"

"Hey, they had crab," Dad says. We turn and stare at him, horrified. "But I didn't get it. Figured you'd like green tea better."

We nod. Green tea ice cream isn't bad, unless you don't like green tea. It has an interesting taste, like green tea, only wit h cream and sugar. The worst thing about it is that it has a lot of caffeine, only you don't expect it because it's ice cream. It looks pretty much like pistachio ice cream (which Dad hates) and Al's exploited this characteristic several times.

How he managed to switch all of the green tea with all of the pistachio without anyone noticing is beyond me. Of course what's really amazing is what Al did the second time. Somehow, he managed it so that the first few scoops of the ice cream from the green tea container were actually green tea. It was only on the second serving that Dad ran into the pistachio.

After that experience, Dad only buys small amounts of green tea ice cream and when he does buy it in large quantities, he has me taste it for him. I don't mind that job much. It pays _very _well.

As soon as I finish my ice cream, I head back up to my room. There's not much to do. I've already finished my homework. I could start reading my English book, but I didn't get around to getting one today. And besides, Envy said that Lust was going to read part of it aloud to Wrath and me which sounds a lot better than reading it myself.

For lack of anything better to do I sign onto AIM. Someone, somewhere, should be on.

**Stutterbug has signed on.**

Russell's on, but before I get the chance to type him a message a window opens up.

**oneofthelowmillions:** thank god you're here

**Stutterbug:** Why? What'd you do this time?

**oneofthelowmillions:** Nothing. But I'm going to. But you'll never guess what I'm talking about.

**Stutterbug:** you want to ask Sloth Peccato to TWIRPS but since she's probably convinced that you should be locked up, you're worried about your chances.

**oneofthelowmillions: **damn, your right. How'd you know?

**Stutterbug:** you're not exactly the epitome of subtle, you know that. Between the staring, the fact that you know she likes owls, the 'sexy Italian woman' comment, it's fairly obvious.

**Stutterbug:** You're just lucky that Winry hasn't attacked her.

**oneofthelowmillions:** Oh, right. Forgot about Winry.

**Stutterbug:** speaking of Winry, I think she's mad at you now.

**oneofthelowmillions:** bugger.

**Stutterbug:** hey, she hasn't given you a concussion yet.

**oneofthelowmillions:** you sound so optimistic.

**Stutterbug:** It's only a matter of time…

**oneofthelowmillions:** Back to Sloth, I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO ASK HER OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

**Stutterbug:** What makes you think I know how?

**oneofthelowmillions:** girls don't hate you.

**Stutterbug:** Winry?

**oneofthelowmillions:** She's a special case. But back to Sloth

**Stutterbug:** Well, don't stare at her intently. That freaks just about everyone out. Don't drool. Do something cute, not public, but very cute.

**Stutterbug:** oh and NO VAMPIRES!

**oneofthelowmillions:** oh. I can't think of anything cute that's not public.

**Stutterbug:** Neither can I. I'm not a girl. Bite the bullet and ask the freshmen girls at your table about it.

**oneofthelowmillions:** ur no help (SUFFER!!!!!!!! May ur i's bleed as u reed this. Look i abus teh exlamation makrs !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! abus abus abus!!!!!)

I glare at the screen. Russell normally avoids using chat speak when talking to me on line. I sigh.

**Stutterbug:** Umm, Russell, random question but how do you feel about un-straight people?

**oneofthelowmillions:** Fine. I don't really care, I mean all of Anne Rice's vamps are bi and most of the guys end up with other men.

**oneofthelowmillions:** Why?

**Stutterbug:** No reason, just asking.

I hope that Russell will just leave it at that and forget the question. It was stupid anyway.

**oneofthelowmillions:** No you don't ask random serious questions like that. Someone you and I know is gay.

**Stutterbug: **What makes you think you know the person?

I cross my fingers and hope that Russell suddenly loses interest or something.

**oneofthelowmillions:** because your getting defensive about it. Which means I'm right.

**oneofthelowmillions:** Sloth's not gay, is she?

**Stutterbug:** no. She's not.

**oneofthelowmillions:** Winry's not lesbian, she had a crush on me.

I snort. That's hardly evidence. Winry's definitely crafty enough to fake an obsession.

**oneofthelowmillions:** Ling's straight. If he was gay or bi he'd have mocked us for being straight. Al's just Al. So that leaves…

**oneofthelowmillions:** you're coming out to me aren't you?

Fuck. This _would_ be the day (hour, minute, second…) that Russell is more perceptive than the average rock.

**Stutterbug:** I guess.

**oneofthelowmillions:** Cool. So, how'd you know.

Well, I had this dream about Envy and we were naked and he was biting my neck and I liked it. And then, he's just been there, with his nice hair, nice ass, and generally nice self.

**oneofthelowmillions:** I bet you have a crush on someone.

I scowl at the computer screen. Russell has had two flashes of brilliant perceptiveness within a minute. I cling to the idea that Russell's using up his monthly quota of awareness. He has to run out sooner or later.

**Stutterbug:** Yes. I do, actually.

**oneofthelowmillions:** who is it?

I roll my eyes. Russell behaves exactly like a freshman girl sometimes.

**oneofthelowmillions: **Don't make me gues.

**Stutterbug:** you'll never guess.

**oneofthelowmillions: **Me?

**Stutterbug:** Ew. That'd be narcissism.

**oneofthelowmillions: **point. Ling?

**Stutterbug:** No.

**oneofthelowmillions: **Mustang, Habshi, Derrick, Fred, Daniel, Matt, Jeff, Davis, Shane?

**Stutterbug:** nope.

**oneofthelowmillions:** so, are you bi or gay?

**Stutterbug:** so far, it's just been one person.

**oneofthelowmillions:** WHO?

**Stutterbug:** Envy.

**oneofthelowmillions : **OMG! U like have 2 ask him 2 twirps

**Stutterbug:** I hate you.

**oneofthelowmillions: **I'm serious. Ask him to TWIRPS. You can come with Sloth and me. That way it won't be as awkward. You can save me from myself. You can kick me in the shins whenever I do something wrong.

**oneofthelowmillions: **Please? Do it for me, if not yourself.

I stare at the computer. Can't one person at least act surprised when I come out to them? Why is everyone taking it so well? Not that I want them to take it badly, but right now it feels like I was the last person to know and everyone else was just waiting for me to figure it out.

**Stutterbug:** Maybe. We'll see.

**oneofthelowmillions: **give me a more definite answer than that.

**Stutterbug:** You think I have one? But, yes, IF I ask him, we can try the double date thing. God knows you're going to need someone to keep your foot out of your mouth.

**oneofthelowmillions: **thanks. But Sloth didn't seem bothered.

**Stutterbug:** Look, just because she didn't slap you, doesn't mean she wasn't bothered. I think you just stunned her into silence.

I hear Al and Wrath come running up the stairs. They're giggling about something. I sigh and roll my eyes. It's not fair that Al acts more gay than I do, yet he's the straight one.

And I know that life's not fair. I'm actually fine with life not being fair, provided it's unfair in _my _favor. Not that it ever is or anything.

**oneofthelowmillions: **oh. I'm screwed aren't I?

**Stutterbug:** yeah, pretty much.

**oneofthelowmillions: **help?

**Stutterbug:** Fine. But only because you'd make a fool of yourself without my help.

**oneofthelowmillions: **Thanks, I think.

**Stutterbug:** ask her out to lunch. Impress by having all of your work done by Saturday.

**oneofthelowmillions: **but I want to do something special

**Stutterbug:** start small. This is the build up. Besides, what do you actually know about her?

I wince after I hit enter. I have just realized that I don't want to know the extent of Russell's stalker-like tendencies. I have a feeling that the truth will be worse than what I've imagined. Especially because I know that Russell installed Google Earth on his computer.

**oneofthelowmillions: **she likes owls, she's Italian, she's pretty good at English, she has a temper, she's in winterguard, but doesn't do colorguard. She wears a lot of designer stuff to school and it's not like the semi-designer stuff you could find around here. It's like actual designer-designer stuff. Like from New York.

**oneofthelowmillions: **she wears expensive jewelry. Most people just think it's really good rhinestone stuff, but it's not. It had too much depth and fire to be plastic or even cubic zirconium.

So far Russell hasn't admitted to anything creepy. This is going better than expected.

**Stutterbug:** how do you know the difference between rhinestones and real diamonds?

More importantly, why do you care, I think.

**oneofthelowmillions: **I looked it up.

**Stutterbug:** Hmmm. You're taking Italian aren't you?

**oneofthelowmillions: **But she speaks it, fluently.

**Stutterbug:** So?

**oneofthelowmillions: **I don't speak it so well. It's my first year.

**Stutterbug:** Oh, right. Why did you take it again? Wouldn't it have been better to take Spanish 3 or something?

**oneofthelowmillions: **Sloth doesn't speak Spanish, now does she?

Huh? I can't be reading this right. If that's true then Russell's been crushing on Sloth for a very long time. That's pretty much impossible, considering how unsubtle he is.

**Stutterbug:** you've liked her that long?

**oneofthelowmillions: **Err. I've always had a vague idea that it'd be charming if I could speak to Sloth in her own language.

That doesn't sound like Russell at all.

**Stutterbug:** Really?

**oneofthelowmillions: **Okay, so last year there was this rumor about having an Italian exchange student this year. I thought that it was going to be a girl, so I signed up for Italian. I was hoping that I could ask her to tutor me or something. Only it turned out to be a boy…

**Stutterbug:** write her a poem in Italian. And have your professor proofread it or something.

**oneofthelowmillions: **NO! Italian poetry is different, there's all sorta of connotations that words have and stuff. And even if I managed a poem that didn't inadvertently insult or proposition her, my professor would probably edit it so it'd do that.

I raise my eyebrow. How does Russell manage to piss off all authority figures in his life?

**Stutterbug:** you're on your own then. Just don't be overly cutesy and make her something in Ceramics. That'd be awful.

**oneofthelowmillions: **Course not. Now I have to go finish my research and stuff.

**Stutterbug:** g'night then

**oneofthelowmillions: **night

**oneofthelowmillions has signed off**.

I sigh. There's nothing left to do now but go to bed. I briefly entertain the idea of waiting to see if Envy will log on again tonight, but discard it. I don't know if he's a late night person and besides, I have better things to do than stare at the computer screen.

Unbidden, the lines to a country song come to mind. _Wash my car in the rain, change my new guitar strings, mow the lawn like I did all yesterday. That's right, I've got better things to do. _

But I seriously have better things to do. Like sleep.

In the morning, Dad tells me that Envy's going to be picking me up for school.

"Wha—huh?" I ask, munching on the French toast Al's made.

"He called when you were asleep," Dad said. I nod. "I didn't want to wake you up, so I told him yes."

The doorbell rings.

"In fact that's probably him," Dad says with a smile. I hastily stuff the rest of the toast in my mouth, grab three more pieces, and throw my backpack over my shoulder.

"Thanks Dad," I say through the French toast. He waves me off and I exit through the front door.

"You look lovely," Envy says, standing back to look at me. I look down and realize that I'm wearing my old pair of leather pants. I don't think I've ever worn them to school. They were originally meant for a Halloween costume, but then Russell stopped dressing up. The pants still fit, but they're a lot tighter than t hey used to be. I find that I don't care, after all Envy seems to appreciate the effect.

"Thanks," I say.

The ride to school flashes by, the school flashes by. When we stop at a red light, I open my mouth to ask Envy about this.

"We're ditching," he whispers, leaning in. He's so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. I move slightly to the side so that our mouths are almost touching.

"Awesome," I whisper. His pupils dilate almost instantaneously.

"Good," Envy whispers back. He brushes his lips against mine. The light turns green and I'm sitting in the passenger's seat, fighting the urge to touch my lips. They haven't stopped tingling.

Unfortunately, we make all the lights.

Envy pulls into a spacious parking lot. I look out. It's in front of the upscale Raddison Hotel. I wonder where we're going. Not to the hotel, that's simply too good to be true.

Envy leads the way, and to my surprise, he enters the hotel. I follow. I've been in here once. It was for a dinner party for my dad's company. We stayed in the lounge the whole time (Dad had expressively forbid Al and I to go exploring) so I don't know my way around.

"I have reservations," Envy said to the man at the front desk. He sneered at us. I tangled my hand up in Envy's. "They're under Envy Peccato."

The man's face becomes neutral and he rings up a woman and gives her directions. We follow her to our room, grinning the entire way. Not once does Envy let go of my hand, even when the woman sniffs at it.

The room is enormous. The bed is at least king-sized. I flop down on it and watch with interest as Envy toes off his sneakers. Interest turns into something else when he removes his shirt. My heart swells and I stare wantonly at him. He turns to me and walks lazily towards the bed.

He sits down and fiddles with the button on his jeans.

"Here, let me help you with that," I say and crawl over. My hands are mere centimeters away from his crotch, something that both he and I are aware of. Then suddenly he's kissing me and I forget just where my hands are and drop them.

The effect that has on Envy is intense.

He mewls and closes his eyes. I attack his throat and move so that I straddle him. My hands forsake all thoughts of modesty and pull his unbuttoned jeans down. I lean my hips against him and he whimpers. I look up from Envy's chest and meet his eyes. He's staring at me with so much lust, hunger, and feeling. It's like yesterday, only today, I don't break eye contact.

He likes me. Wrath said so, and even if he hadn't, Envy's body has said it a million times over.

Suddenly, he's moving forward, grabbing the hem of my shirt and tugging. I lean back and wriggle out of my shirt. He throws it somewhere and I lay across him. He draws his nails up my back and I arch into the sensation. Our groins touch and we both shudder.

"Why," Envy pants through half-lidded eyes. "Are you still wearing those pants?"

"Because you haven't taken them off yet," I say. Envy tackles me and rolls me across the bed. I laugh as he unbuttons my pants and pulls the zipper down. He tries to jerk the pants off me, but they're stuck fast.

"Here, let me up," I say. I roll off the bed and shimmy out of them. They pool at my ankles and I step out of them. Envy's watching me intently.

"You do know," he whispers, standing behind me. His fingers caress the skin above my boxers and he bites my neck lightly. "That what you did to get out of those pants was the most erotic thing I've seen."

I twist around and push him onto the bed.

"Oh really?" I say, as Envy watches with widen eyes. "Then let me show you more."

Envy's boxers are thrown at the door, mine follow shortly after. I kiss every inch of Envy's body and he licks any place he can reach on mine. Soon we're covered in a mixture of sweat and stickiness.

I smile and look up at the white ceiling. I roll over to whisper something in Envy's ear.

THWACK!

OW!

"Fuck," I groan. What on earth did I hit? I blink my eyes. A wall comes into focus. More importantly, it's my white wall, not the cream of the hotel suite.

Fuck! It was a dream.

Wait. I didn't stutter in my dream. I didn't stutter when I said fuck.

"Fuh—"

The sound is low and hesitant.

"Fffuh-fff-f-ff-f-f-f-f_uh—_CK."

Fuck. I still stutter.

I roll over onto my stomach and realize not even sudden pain has convinced my body that the dream is over.

Fuck. I _loathe_ cold showers.

"Cold, Cold! Cold! Cold!" I hiss as the cold water hits me. I scowl. The water seems to have no effect on my body. None. I don't even consider the other way of removing my… problem. Not when Al and Wrath are only two doors down.

Still, it's not going away. I turn the warm water on and get up out of the shower. I ignore the wet mess I'm making of the bathroom floor and lock the door. I shiver and return to the now warm shower.

It's not that I've never masturbated before. I've just never done it with a specific person in mind. Or, I realize, a specific gender. I wonder what the difference is going to be like. I stand in the shower's spray for a moment and contemplate possible positions.

I've always stood up before, but this time will be different; I can tell. I chew my lower lip. If I fall, it's going to make a sound. And Al, Dad, and Wrath will all come running. Well, maybe not Dad. My fall isn't going to wake him up.

But I don't want Al or Wrath to see me … doing _that_, naked. Sitting down is the best option.

I bend the shower head until it clicks into its near vertical position. I sit down and spread my legs. I can't believe I'm going to do this. I can't believe I'm really going to _jack off _to _Envy_.

My … um… thingy hardens at the thought of his name. Not even the awkward thoughts of what to call my _natural male reaction to certain green haired stimuli_ can err… _de_-harden it.

I tentatively touch my … dick, cock, member, hard-on, pick, shaft, manhood, organ, wang—I hate all these stupid words. Sex. My sex. Sex totally works.

I lean back and the shower spray soaks my hair. Envy has magically teleported here, naked. A tingly warm sensation fills my groin. I shiver. I can't believe how my body reacts to the mere thought of Envy. I run my hands slowly up and down my sides, slow and teasing. A thick tightness develops in my chest and my breaths start to come in pants.

As I curl my hand around my self, I imagine that the hand is his. He's leaning against me, his hard—shit! Stupid semantics. His hardness is pressing against my butt. I arch up against it, throwing my head back into the shower's spray.

I draw my short nails up my sex, err shaft. I try to imagine what Envy's longer nails would feel like. I close my eyes and have a vision of him lowering his head to my—I yelp as my body orgasms violently and I bang my head on the facet.

I moan and it has nothing to do with arousal.

The pain to my head takes care of any lingering … excitement that the masturbating didn't remove. I complete my now innocent, but rather chill, shower. I wrap my towel around my hair and drag the floor towel across the floor to mop up the water.

At the sink I brush and floss my teeth. I hear a small knock at the door. Which I open.

Big mistake.

"I was—you're naked," Wrath remarks, blinking rapidly.

"ARGH!" I slam the door in his face. Today is not my morning. I grab my boxers off the counter and slip them on. Feeling considerably braver now that my bits aren't displayed for the world to see, I open the door.

"Err, ss-s-s—sorry about that," I stammer, sliding past Wrath.

"No problem," Wrath says looking at me with unholy amusement in his eyes.

"Right," I mutter and retreat to my room. I refuse to think about what Wrath's last comment means. It's not like he's going to go home and tell Envy, in extreme detail, what my naked, wet body looks like.

**End Chapter 10.**

Well, I like this one. I got so into it that when I was editing it and I got to the end I was like 'What?! I didn't write anymore.' Then I realized that I had and that this was just the Chapter 1O document.


	11. Chapter 11

Oh wow, it's been what SEVEN MONTHS!?!?!? Agh. School sucks. Senior year sucks. Then my computer got moved down stairs sans internet and I discovered I can't write in a place where people might walk through or something. It just doesn't work. Then I spent a week backpacking in the Three Sisters. I spent the next week irritating indigo's ocean before she told me to go work on other stories. However, it was really only the "update!review" from **the Faerie of Darkness **(on Stupid Cupid) and my promise to spend three hours on this. Irritatingly enough, the first 2.5 hours were best describes as A Complete And Total Waste Of 2.5 Perfectly Good Hours. Then, much to indigo's ocean's relief (I was going to start bugging her about _her_ chapter 11 for Stupid Cupid as soon as the three hours were up), I got on a roll. I spent FIVE HOURS on this chapter (and this is not counting the parts that I'd already written). I literally sat at my desk from 10 AM until 3 PM.

I don't want to see any update reviews. Please? I'm pretty psyched about writing this again. I'm at college next year and have worked it so that I have Fridays completely free. To "study" (or work on fanfiction…) So, I don't think there will be a repeat of this last year. And I think we all know by now that I can ignore update!reviews.

Oh and speaking of things that haven't updated in FOREVER, I'm working on Playing with Fire AGAIN. This time, kittyebony13 (she writes IF, go read it, review it [no update!reviews as she updates at the rate of 3 chapters per week]) has agreed to write it with me. Here's to hoping some of her mad updating skillz will rub off on me… And judging from the ideas we keep brainstorming, PWF is going to be sooooo awesome. Like beyond awesome. So epic, that it gets an Envy-centric prequel. So know that, even if you can't see it, Playing With Fire _lives_.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any part of the Divine Comedy. That belongs to Dante. I don't own FMA, Ashton Martin, or Flyleaf.

**Begin Chapter Eleven of Stuttering Toward Ecstasy:**

I stare at the various pairs of pants strew across my bed. I glance out the window. It looks cold and gray. I turn my eyes back to the pants. I throw the ripped and torn jeans back into the drawer. Nothing is more irritating than drafty jeans on a cold day.

I glance down at my shirt. It's red and rather bright with a crazy image of a BMX biker on it. I'm not a BMX biker or anything; I just thought it looked kind of cool. The only thing is, it doesn't have any blue in it whatsoever. That means that if I try to wear it with a random pair of jeans Mom or Winry will accuse me of clashing.

Suddenly an idea strikes me.

I smirk and lunge across the room to dig around in the closet. I know I didn't get rid of those pants. They were too expensive, for one, and I didn't want to have to explain their existence to Mom.

I have the leather pants halfway on before I realize that boxers are not the best option here. Grumbling, I shimmy out of the pants and quickly change my underwear. Sure, briefs, even boxer-briefs, are embarrassing, but it's not like I'm going to undress in front of Envy. Besides, boxers and tight leather pants don't work well together. Trust me.

After I get the leather pants on, I slip on the Vans that my aunt bought me for Christmas. I like them. Not only are they a bit more waterproof than the average Converse shoe, but they have a thicker sole, as opposed to Converse which must've been designed with the intention of the wearer feeling everything larger than the average rock.

"DAD!" Al shouts, as I grab my backpack from the floor. I sigh and carefully place my binder into my pack. I'd hoped for a nice mellow morning. Like that'd ever happen around here.

I walk down the stairs, mentally bracing myself for the chaos. I expect that Dad's teasing Al about something that Al doesn't find all that funny. Wrath's probably just sitting there, slightly scared. I sigh. Why can't my family just be normal?

I enter the kitchen to find Dad, Al, and Wrath all staring at the ceiling. There's a box of Bisquick on the counter, a plastic bowl with a spoon it, and Dad's holding a spatula. I sigh, roll my eyes, and get out two eggs. I don't even want to know what's on the ceiling.

"Ed," Al says, "what are you doing?"

"Making _my _breakfast," I answer, holding a skillet up. I place a small slice of butter on the skillet and turn on the burner. Dad glares at me. I scowl. I can manage scrambled eggs.

"But Ed," Dad says, helplessly, "we're making breakfast."

"No," I correct him, cracking the eggs and tossing the eggshells into the sink. "You're making _your _breakfast. I, however, want t-to eat before going t-to s-ss-school and am therefore making my own breakfast."

"You can't cook," Al says, fixing me with the evil eye. "Mom says you're banned from the kitchen."

"I can manage s-scrambled eggs!" I retort. "You're the one who's got s-something st-st-stuck to the ss-sis-ceiling."

"That was his fault," Dad and Al both say, pointing at each other. I sigh.

"Wrath, you want anything?" I ask, fighting not to blush. He just saw me naked, that's all. Not like it's Envy or anything, though maybe… No. I refuse to think thoughts like that at breakfast.

Or any time. I, Edward Elric, do not do urges.

Especially not at breakfast.

Or in leather pants.

Tight leather pants that would show if I had an _urge,_ but won't be a problem because I don't have urges.

"I think I'll just have cereal," Wrath says. I can't say I blame him. He obviously does not trust any of the Elrics with cooking. Wise.

"Me too," Al suddenly chimes in. "What type do you want?"

I try not to laugh at the expression of mingled shock and horror on Wrath's face. Al seems to have suddenly remembered his goal to impress Wrath and is now eager to play hostess.

"I'm going t-to call Llllling," I say. I don't know how Wrath and Al are getting to school or how Wrath's stuff is getting home, but I don't want to take the risk of riding to school in Dad's Corvette with Al and Wrath again. Once was more than enough.

"I was going to give you guys a ride," Dad says, disappointed. Al and I exchange looks. The only reason that Dad likes to drive us to school is because it's across town from his work. Which means he gets to terrify twice as many pedestrians and fellow motorists than usual.

"That won't be necessary," Al says. "Wrath is going to call and remind his mom to drive us. _Right_, Wrath?"

I dial Ling's number and poke my eggs with the spatula. They sizzle and someone in the Ling household picks up. I swallow the lump in my throat and try to speak.

"Hi." Even though I don't have problems with h's my voice is weak and wavery. "Is llll-llllll-Liing there?

"Oh sure, Edward," Ling's mom says sweetly. "Let me put him on." In the background I hear a shout of 'Ling! It's for you! Edward!'

"Hey, need a ride?" Ling says answering the phone.

"Yeah," I say, moving the eggs around on the skillet.

"Can do, oh!" he says suddenly. "Can you do me a huge favor?"

"Uh-huh," I say, fighting against the lump in my throat. I'm not supposed to avoid anything; I'm not supposed to avoid anything, I repeat to myself. Izumi says it causes more stress. But I _hate_ talking on the phone.

"Pick up Winry before you come," Ling says and I just know he's smiling his all too wide smile. "Don't try to ditch her either. She's nicer when she's not mad. Though, she's definite hotter madder."

An undignified squawk is my only response to the last sentence.

"But yeah," Ling says and I can still feel his smile. "I should let you go."

"Okay," I say. "Bye!"

"Bye!"

"Ed, I think your eggs are burning!"

I'm halfway to Winry's house before I remember that she's mad at me. I glance back towards home and keep walking. After the flaming eggs I don't think I'd be very welcome there. And Ling's my only ride, unless I want to ride with Al and Wrath and _Envy._

I blush.

After last night I don't think that I could ride with Envy in a car, even if he wasn't driving, and not be in a permanent blushing state. I sigh and bite my lip. At this point, apologizing to Winry is almost safer.

I walk up her driveway, hoping that she'll let me beg forgiveness _before_ she hits me with her wrench. Not likely, but there's always hope.

I ring the doorbell and seconds later Winry appears. She's wearing a vibrant blue long-sleeved shirt, with a tight bright yellow spaghetti strap shirt over it. Instead of the sensible shoes she normally wears, Winry has a pair of dark blue high-heeled boot on that clash terrible with the metallic gold spandex she's wearing under her blue and yellow plaid mini-skirt. She also has blue and gold ribbons in her ponytail.

"Okay! I got it! BYE MOM!" she shouts back before slamming the door. "Honestly, you'd think that she'd understand. The entire field hockey team is dressing up, but no, '_You look like a whore!'_" Winry says in imitation of her mom's voice. "Honestly, do I look like a whore to you?"

I shake my head. There is one right answer here. I don't say anything though. It's safer not to state an opinion when Winry starts fighting with her parents. Switzerland is ideal at this point.

"But yeah," she says, turning to me. "So why are you here?"

"I came t-tt-t-to apologize about in the car and all," I say. She keeps walking with me, instead of stomping off. She can't be that mad.

"Anything else?" she asks, suspiciously. I sigh. I don't normally make the first step in apologies. I think it started because I couldn't say sorry, literally. Then it just sort of became habit.

"Nope," I say. There is no way I'm telling her about Ling.

"You sure?" Winry says, narrowing her eyes.

"Well," I say, drawing out the word. "Lllllling might've ss-sss-ss-said ss-ss-sss-something about giving you a ride, maybe."

"Hmm," Winry says looking thoughtful. I look for escape routes. It's never a good thing when Winry starts plotting; Russell can attest to that. "Did he say anything else?"

I shake my head.

"Any thing at all?" Winry asks, again. "He didn't say anything, just 'tell Winry we're giving her a ride'?"

"Yeah," I say. "That's pretty much it."

"You sure?"

There is no way in Hell that I am going to tell her that Ling wanted me to apologize. It's suicidal.

"He didn't say anything else about me?"

I look away. It was enough that I had to hear the phrase 'she's hotter when she's mad.' I don't want to repeat it aloud.

"No, Winry. He didn't say anything else about you."

Winry gives me a quizzical look.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," she says simply. "It's nothing."

"No, Winry," I say. I don't trust her look. It's too smug and superior and dangerous. "What is it?"

"Tell me what Ling said," Winry says suddenly, "and I'll tell you what."

"You really want t-to know?" I ask. I have no idea how Winry will react to Ling's comment. Or how Ling will react if he finds out I told her. Actually, he'd probably take it well. Since he's said stuff like that before. He's the only person I know who can call Winry cute and not be maimed.

"YES!" Winry says, glaring at me. "Why wouldn't I want to know?"

I don't want to answer that question.

"Uh, well, he t-t-t-told me not t—t-to make you mad this morning, but that you llll-lllluh-llluh-llook hotter when you're mad. His words, not mine," I stammer out and wait for the explosions.

Nothing.

Instead Winry's just blushing slightly and looks rather flattered.

"Really?" She asks again, dreamily. "He said that?"

"Yes," I say. I want to forget I ever heard his comment not have a discussion about it. "What were you going t-to t-t-tell me?"

"Oh, just that you said 'say' without stuttering," Winry says, smiling. "Though you might like to know."

I stop.

I can't believe this.

This can't be true.

I can't say 's' words without stuttering.

It's impossible. It just doesn't happen. There's no way on earth.

I can't believe I didn't notice this.

"You ss-sss-ssis-ssis-ssserious?" I ask Winry, incredulous.

"Yep," she says brightly. "Though I suppose you're never going to do it again, since you'll be thinking about. Hmm, maybe I shouldn't have told you."

"Heh," I say. She's probably right too. The more I think about words the more I stutter. But if I don't think about what I'm going to say, I'll accidentally stutter or worse, block.

Either way I'm screwed.

"So, yeah," Winry says. "How was speech yesterday?"

"Good," I say. "It was good."

"Oh, well that's nice," Winry says. I can feel the conversation start to die.

"Sss-s-sis-sss-sllloth was there," I say suddenly. Winry stares at me, shocked.

"No way!" she says. "Sloth, Sloth Peccato, Sloth drama-geek I-Heart-Public-Speaking Peccato stutters?"

"Yeah," I say.

"How is that even possible?" Winry asks as we near Ling's house. "I mean, you'd think you would've heard he stutter over_ something_ before this."

"I don't know. She sis-sis-said ss-ss-s-s—something about ss-s-singing voices and voice llllllessons," I say. Winry raises an eyebrow at me. She has, apparently, noticed that I'm stuttering more. Great. "It made ss-ss-sense to Izumi, ss-so." I shrug.

"Interesting," is all Winry has to say.

"Ed, Winry!" Ling says when he sees us. He's standing outside next to his mom's Landcruiser. I raise an eyebrow. Ling is dressed bizarrely. He's wearing his normal collared shirt, with the cuffs unbuttoned, but instead of the normal array of conservative colors, it's bright blue. Sure, it's actually a nice civilized blue, but it's striped and from a distance it looks brighter. And he's wearing yellow and blue plaid shorts (mostly yellow, but still!). I stare at his feet. Gold flip-flops? And the Landcruiser? Why? Ling's ancient Aston Martin is sitting right there in the garage. He's modified it (causing my dad great pain) so that it seats three instead of just two. There's enough room for me, him, and Mei—oh, right. There's Winry, who Ling thinks is hot when she's mad. That would be why we're taking the Landcruiser.

"Hey, Ling," Winry says, smiling. "What's with the color?"

"Gotta support the team, home game right?" He says smiling at Winry. "So, yeah, we're taking the Landcruiser again because I haven't had a chance to look over the Aston yet. Who knows what those amateurs at the shop did to it," Ling says, sighing dramatically.

"Why did you even t-take it in?" I ask. Ling always does this, despite my dad's numerous 'hints' that truly dedicated car classic car owners look after their own cars. Hint isn't the right word for it. It's more like Dad has mocked Ling, his car, and his masculinity and then offered to give Ling some car care lessons. Which is bizarre considering that Ling's car is in better condition than Dad's.

"The rear bumper fell off and Mom doesn't want me to weld anything until I've taken a few classes," Ling says. "And so either I drive around without a bumper or I go to the shop or your dad and someone else does it. And no offense, but after last time I am not hanging out in your garage as your dad mutilates my baby."

"And the guys at the shop are better?"

"I don't have to watch or worry that they'll remove the seats," Ling says. I sigh. I wish his reasons weren't valid, but sadly, my dad would probably remove Ling's bench seat if Ling didn't watch him. Of course, Ling takes watching to a whole new level. He very quietly peers over my dad's shoulder and will make odd comments that cause my dad to jump and scratch stuff. It's a very bad arrangement.

"Point," I say.

"Why don't you wait in the car," Ling says. "I'm going to go figure out what's taking Mei so long." He walks into the house through the garage just as Mei skips out the front door. I sigh and Winry giggles.

"I'll go get him," she says, smiling. Great, now I'm left alone with Mei. Fortunately, it doesn't take long before we're all in the car. The ride to school is mercifully short. Mei and Winry chatter on about really girly stuff (like lip gloss and boys) while Ling just smiles his smug smile.

Math goes by quickly. Maybe it's because I'm familiar with the subject matter now and logs are just easy. Or it could be because next period I have Physics, with Envy and after that dream and—he _likes _me. I can't help myself I grin and Ketu gives me a strange look. I just shake my head and pretend to pay attention to the problem that Grumman is working on the board.

I enter Physics warily. Envy is already in there, sitting at one of the lab tables. My heart leaps to my throat. He looks up, excited, but he doesn't wave wildly like yesterday. I sigh. I would've liked to get to know Noah better, but there's no way I can't not sit with Envy, if that makes any sense.

I walk over to his group. Roy's also decked out in the school colors. Though he's just wearing a yellow shirt with a blue tie. His girlfriend smiles at me. I wave a little. She's dress a lot like Winry with the same mini-skirt (only hers is actually longer), blue spandex, and bright gold boots.

"Hey Ed," she says, before turning back to Roy. Winry probably covets her shirt, I think. It's this bright yellow Underarmor that fits like a second skin. However, Riza's a bit more modest than Winry and has worn a light blue top over it. "Field hockey game today, you coming?"

"Ah, maybe," I say and turn to Envy. His entire face just lights up. He's grinning manically, like Christmas came early or something. I smile in return.

"There enough st-st-stt-stools t-t-today?" I ask, smiling. Envy looks confused, then his eyes go wide and he blushes.

"Uh, ah, yeah, plenty of stools," he says, trying not to look at me.

"That's good," I say, sitting down next to him, on his left. He's wearing a white shirt with dandelions on it. It doesn't seem to go with the rest of his outfit (black jeans that that are too loose to be skinny—or Envy's too skinny for them to be ski-tight—lime green Converse, and black, fingerless, fishnet gloves that stop at his elbows).

"Yeah, uh, I guess," he says and looks away. I frown. Oh, right he probably thinks that I mean that I _didn't _like sitting his lap yesterday. Great. I sigh. Wrath didn't mention just how paranoid Envy is.

I have to say something, otherwise he's going to worry and think and be completely wrong, and I have no idea what to say.

"What's f-ff-fff-Flyleaf?" I ask, lightly tracing the cursive name on Envy's shirt. The writing is right across Envy's chest and he stares at my finger as I try not to worry about how stupid my stutter sounds. I don't carry if Envy doesn't seem to mind, just once I'd like to speak normally.

"I-I-it's it's a—they're they're a band," Envy stammers. His eyes are wide and he's looking at me, almost panicked but definitely confused. I removed my finger.

"I've never heard of them," I say. Dr. Knox has entered the room and from the looks of things, today's just going to be a lecture.

"You should, I mean, they're a really great band," Envy says as he reaches down to pull out his notebook. "I think you'd like some of their songs."

"Really?" I say, looking at Envy's hands, they're so beautiful and in the dream when—Oh fuck! I immediately blush and look away. I can't think about stuff like that, not in these pants, they're too tight and then Envy would see and he'd know and he might—no! "I'll have t-t-to check them out sometime."

"Yeah," Envy says as he takes out a mechanical pencil. "Maybe later at my house we can listen to them or something."

"That'd be nice," I say. Dr. Knox is saying something about 'the center fleeing force' and how it doesn't exist, but I'm not listening. Centrifugal forces and their possible existence don't interest me at the moment. Impulsively, I reach for Envy's hand and place it, palm up, in my hand. He clenches it nervously and I run my thumb over his bright pink nails.

"How much llllonger do you have t-to keep the nail polish on f-f-ff-for?" I ask. Envy doesn't answer; instead he makes a questioning whimper. I turn my hand over so our palms are touching. I slide my fingers out across his larger, yet more delicate hand.

"Oh, ah, right, bet, um I don't really know," Envy says after awhile. "Wrath didn't say."

I turn his hand back and run my fingers over the tops of it before setting my hand back in my lap.

"You have pretty hands," I say after awhile.

"I'm not a girl," Envy says. He doesn't meet my eyes. I don't know why.

"I didn't s-say you were," I tell him and reach for his hand again. He pulls away.

"Don't touch me," he snaps. He glares at me before looking away. He starts taking notes. I shift in my seat and place my hand on the desk.

"I mean, chibi," he says angrily. "Don't touch me."

"Okay," I say, shifting away from him. "I'm s-s-sorry."

Envy doesn't say anything. He just stares at the whiteboard and copies down the equations and formulas. I sigh, and when he still doesn't look at me, turn back to my binder and start taking notes.

"So, English," Envy says he catches up to and we leave S2. I look over at him. He's not really smiling, but he doesn't look mad.

"Yeah," I say and look up at him again. He's wearing a bunch of silver and black necklaces today and a sweatband that has some team name or logo on it pushes his hair back.

"I wonder what Kärki is going to do today," Envy says conversationally. It's like the thing in Physics never even happened. I want to ask him about it but don't. He may just like his personal space. Though he didn't seem to have a problem with it yesterday or when he rubbed my back.

"I wouldn't know," I say truthfully.

"Oh," Envy says and he looks down. "Well, we'll just have to find out."

"Yeah."

"Look, Edward," Envy says, suddenly turning to face me. I stop dead. "If you don't want to be around me, don't hang out with me, you don't have to. If you don't want to talk to me, then don't. Don't feel obligated to do this because of some misguided principle of yours and you thinking you can make me happy." He spat out the word. His voice is rising and he takes a step closer. Suddenly I can't breathe or move. If take a step back, I'm just proving his point but if I don't move, if I don't move I'll kiss him. "You're not responsible for me, regardless of what Wrath said."

"Envy," I say placing a hand on his wrist. "Wrath didn't say anything."

"Oh," he says in a quiet voice before jerking away from me. "Still, if you don't like me, don't—"

"Envy," I say, recapturing his hand. "It's not that I don't lllllike you, but—"

"But?" he interrupts. I weave my fingers into his.

"Don't interrupt. It's just that," I start to say. There's no good way to say this. "If you knew me, you'd know that I am really, just incredibly bad at conversation. Nothing against you personally, I just have a really hard t-t-t-tt-time tt-t-t-talking t-t-ttt—to people I don't know well." Envy looks as if he's about to protest something, I continue anyways. "And I want t-to get t-tt-to know you. Really, I do."

"Oh, oh," Envy says. He disentangles him hand from mine. "Okay, I can live with that, but really, what's with the touching?"

I flush bright red.

"I—nothing, just nothing," I say hurried walking towards English, Envy catches up easily.

"Really," he says running his long pink nails up my bare arm. I shiver and blush more. "Oh, are you cold, Edo? Want me to warm you up?"

"No, no, no, no," I say quickly. "I'm not cold, it's warm today." Which is a lie, I'm actually freezing, but it was sunny when I looked out my window and I'd just kind of assumed that it would be warm. Wrong.

"You sure?" Envy asks. He leans closer to me and practically purrs, "Edward, you were just shivering…" He's almost touching my ear, he could _lick _my ear, lick my ear, just lick my ear. My thought process is definitely not coherent.

"Yeah, definitely sure that I'm not cold or anything," I say.

"Yo," a low voice calls. We both look. A guy in baggy corduroy pants and a dark blue Berkeley shirt is approaching us. "Envy, Ed," he says nodding at us. I don't remember his name. He's in our English group and apparently is with Serendity-whatever, but that's it.

"Yeah," Envy says, turning to face him.

"I'm going to ditch, take notes for me, okay?" he says with a lopsided grin. "I'm gone." Envy makes a tsk-ing noise with his tongue.

"My, my, my, Landon, what on earth are you going to tell Seren," Envy says looking up at the overcast sky. "Ditching her favorite class like that."

"I'm going to her cross-country meet," Landon says smugly. "She's _always _going on about how nobody comes and how other sports get all the recognition. I'm going to surprise her."

"What am I supposed to tell Kärki? That you've decided to follow Seren around? He's not going to believe or like that," Envy says.

"Just tell him that I can't find my woman, but I need to obey, so I'm going to go find her. Tell Kärki I send my love, but that, aging sex god that he is, Seren is a young and sexy goddess, a young, sexy, and soon to be sweaty—"

"Okay, ew," Envy says, scrunching up his nose. "I don't need to hear this. Fine, I'll tell Kärki, but, never mind. It's useless, there is nothing; you're just a lost cause. Go, go to Seren, maybe she'll know what to do with you."

"That's what I hope," Landon says.

"Oh God, I-I-Iya uh did not need that mental image, Landon," Sloth says suddenly. "Go, before Kärki sees y-y-y-you or something."

"Sure thing Sloth," Landon says after shooting Envy a confused look. Envy mouths something back at him and he nods and walks off.

"How on earth do y-y-y-you manage?" Sloth whispers at me. Envy glares at her.

"Ss-ss-ss-sucks, doesn't it?" I say. Envy opens the door for us and I walk towards my seat.

"ELRIC! We're in groups today!" Kärki bellows from his desk in the back. I jump and Envy grins wickedly. "TWIN-SINS, you're supposed to be looking after him, don't make me fail you."

"Yes, sir!" Envy says eagerly and salutes him. Sloth just rolls her eyes. Kärki turns back to whatever he was doing and I just stare at Envy. Oh God no. I'm going to have to sit next to him for a whole hour while he flirts, teases, and gets offended at me without any warning whatsoever.

"Let's sit here, Edo," Envy says cheerfully. He seems to have selected a seat at random. "No one else from our group is here today."

"Sure," I say, slumping down in a seat. Envy immediately scoots closer to me. I look over at Sloth, who's sitting on my other side. She just smiles.

"Ever consider wearing your hair just down?" Envy asks, looking at my strangely.

"No," I say. "It gets in my f-ff-f-face and makes me llllook lllike a girl."

"I think it's hot."

I just stare at Envy.

"You think it's hot when I wear my hair down?" I ask, just to make sure I haven't heard wrong or something. Sloth giggles, but quickly turns it into a cough. Envy's eyes widen comically and his mouth is open in the shape of an O. As in 'Oh shit.'

"I didn't mean it that way. I swear," Envy blurts out.

"How did you mean it, Envy?" Sloth asks, leaning forward. She's slipped into her other voice again. Dammit! It's not fair! "Because I thought you were perfectly clear."

"No! It didn't mean it _looks_ hot or anything," Envy says. He's turning beet red and I can see why he doesn't wear red. He looks very Christmas-y. "I just meant that it looks hot temperature wise, you know, like it would _be_ hot to wear your hair down, since you have so much of it. Really, I don't know how you girls do it."

Sloth makes a choked sound and quickly starts coughing, though the coughs sound suspiciously like giggles.

"Envy," she says when she's stopped coughing. "Your hair is down too."

"Shut up," Envy says turning red again. "It's cold and Edward's hair is thicker."

"You're right," I say, "It is warmer down." I pull my hair band from my hair.

"No! What are you doing?" Envy sounds panicked.

"Lllletting my hair down, why?" I ask, smiling slightly. "Don't lllike it?"

"No, no, it's just that, I, why would you do that?" Envy asks incoherently.

"I'm cold, and according t-t-to you, this is warmer," I say. "You have a problem with that?" Envy gives me a baleful look before resting his head on his desk. He brings his arms up like he's going to fall asleep or something. He tilts his head so that his hair obscures his face.

"Envy?" I pick some of his hair up. He opens a violet eye.

"Go away," he says and glares at me. I don't. Instead I finger the small section of his green hair. It slips through my fingers like silk. It's so soft.

"Do you use conditioner?" I ask suddenly. Envy looks at me with the most conflicted expression I've seen.

"What I do in the shower is none of your business," Envy snaps. He sits up suddenly and pulls his hair away from me. He twirls it around and drapes it over his other shoulder far from my hands. I turn bright red at Envy's words. Envy in the shower. Images from _my_ shower bombard me. I cross my legs quickly and look away.

"I didn't mean it like that," Envy says suddenly. He's turning pink too. "I just meant that—"

"Regardless of what you mean or did not mean, twin-sin, class has started and Habshi isn't here, why?" Kärki asks, suddenly right behind Envy. Envy gulps and I wonder just how much did Kärki hear.

"He's not here," Envy says nervously.

"I gathered that much, Peccato," Kärki says, "by looking at his empty desk. Now, I know that Kahlo is at her little running thing, but Habshi isn't on cross-country and I have been assured that he did not manage to sneak on the bus. Now, where is he?"

"Oh, well," Envy says. "He told me that he wasn't going to be here. Something about how he can't find his woman, who you're always telling him to obey, so he's out looking for her. He sends his love, but that you just don't cut it anymore, aging sex god and all. You see Seren is a young and sexy goddess and have you _seen_ the uniforms that those cross-country runners wear? Scandalous."

"You can't be serious," Kärki says. Envy shrugs. "Oh my God. Remind me to kill him when he gets back.

"Today, I'm going to be going over the Seven Sins, which as Justin pointed out last period, are not mentioned in the Inferno. However, he took this to mean that we wouldn't be covering them. Wrong. After Dante gets out of Hell, he still has to climb Mount Purgatory."

Kärki walks over to the white board and uncaps a green pen. He draws a ten-layer cake on the board.

"The first two levels are the excommunicate and the late repentant, but we don't care about them. The first real terrace is that of the Proud. They walk around carrying rocks on their back, bent over. This is—yes, Try-Ham?"

"So it's like a pun because the proud stand up straight and all?" Russell asks.

"I wouldn't call it something so vulgar as a pun, but yes, the rocks are to teach humility which is the opposite of pride and that pride, a sin, is a weight on one's soul that is better to throw off than lug around. Moving on, Terrace Two is that of the Envious," Kärki pauses to look directly at Envy.

"Why he feels the need to mock my name," Envy mutters glaring up at Kärki from the desk where his head is pillowed. "I do no know."

"Envy, it appears, is a forgivable sin as opposed to causing trouble for Rome, which lands you in Hell forever. The sinners on this terrace have their eyes sewn shut so they can't see anything to envy. It is here, that Jesus repeated tells the sinners to love their enemies. Yes, Gardwin?"

"What's the difference between Jealousy and Envy?" a boy in the front asks.

"We'll cover that later, when we discuss what properly defines an emotion. Moving on to the Third Terrace…"

I start to zone out. I can't help it. This is all completely unfamiliar babble to me. I haven't even started the Inferno yet, let alone Purgatory, which we don't have to read, but we're covering anyways because Kärki feels like it.

"The Fourth Terrace belongs to the Slothful. The punishment for this sin is similar to cross-country country practice—or so the team tells me—in that they are not allowed to stop running. I expect we will see a reverse of today where Habshi is off gallivanting across the state to cheer Kahlo while she runs. Instead, Habshi will run non-stop while Jesus and Kahlo cheer from Heaven. I do so hope I get to watch that spectacle, allegorically of course."

The rest of the lecture wraps up before the bell rings. There's about five minutes left in the period. And Envy and I are just sitting there. I don't want to say anything because he's acting so weird. Like he's bipolar or something.

"So, Ed," he says suddenly turning to me.

"Yeah," I say, hesitatingly. I don't want to set him off again, but I don't even know what I'm doing wrong or if it's me. Maybe Wrath just made him paranoid about something or he's miffed that I didn't want to ride with him to school (which isn't strictly true).

"So, for the sleepover, do you want go home first or—basically, how do you want to get your stuff to my house?" Envy asks. He blushes and giggles a bit. I just stare. He's acting so strange.

"Uh," I stall for time, as usual. Though this has a lot more to do with Envy than my stutter. "Well, I should probably go home and get my ss-sis-sis-st-t-stuff f-f-first."

"Okay, cool," Envy says. His face is unreadable. "Are you getting picked up or should—or what?"

"Um, I don't really know," I say. "My mom's out of t-t-t-town, but well, like I s-ss-suh-suh-said I don't really know. Could you t—take me home or s-ss-something?"

"Ah, Chibi," he says, smiling suddenly. I feel butterfly-shaped fireworks go off in my stomach. He's so beautiful when he smiles. "I'd thought you'd never ask."

"Okay, good," I say finally. "I'll meet you outside of ceramics."

The bell rings and everyone gets up.

"Hey, yeah," Envy says, his reply almost lost in the sudden noise. "Actually, I'll see if I can meet you there. I have Italian at the college, so I might be running a bit late, if that's okay."

"Sure," I say. "I can't wait."

"Brilliant," Envy says. "See you later!"

After he's left, Sloth whispers to me:

"He likes you."

"So I hear, so I hear."

**Fin.**


	12. Chapter 12

AN: I'm so sorry. I can't believe I made you guys wait this long. Thank you for being so loyal and understanding. I do not deserve you. I know you guys got chapter eleven in the summer and I was on a roll with writing and all, then family shit happened (I'd tell you but … it's a lot), and yeah. Then after I didn't feel like writing, school started. I'm now in college and have no time to write. I have a laptop now, which is why you're getting this chapter…

Anyways, I'm telling you this now because I didn't want to do the whole Oh! You Thought You Were Getting An Update But I'm Really Just Telling You I'm NOT Going To Be Updating. I hate those. And it's against the rules to post non-chapters…

And besides, aren't you guys excited that I haven't used the dreaded H-word (hiatus) to describe the pace of updates (it's more of a sabbatical really…)? Eh? Eh? Eh? Cause you know what happens to hiatus'd stories, THEY DIE QUIETLY.

Oh and that story Ed's writing. Yeah, that's one of my stories. Yeah. Hands off, bitches. I am so not kidding.

Regardless, here is the much-awaited chapter. ENJOY!!!

**Stuttering Towards Ecstasy**

**Chapter Twelve**

Hughes is back and the creepy sub is gone. I breathe a sigh of relief. If that sub was here another day, Russell might take one of his handy silver stakes (he's prepared for vampires _and_ werewolves) and stab him through the heart. He'd probably use the death to prove vampires exist. But what _doesn't_ die when you stab it in the heart?

"Alright!" Hughes says after the bell rings. "Sorry about yesterday. Elysia was in the hospital." The entire class gasps. "Fortunately, it was just her appendix. It's all out now, wanna see?" The entire class shouts 'No!' "Oh well, here's some pictures of her in the hospital, isn't she cute?"

I roll my eyes. We go through this about once a week or so.

"So, today's just a library day, scoot!" Hughes says, shooing us towards the door.

I spend the better part of the hour looking up the religion in Pennsylvania to no avail. There really isn't any thing much on it. Aside from the Quakers, but any other demographic… well, tough luck.

Sloth seems to be in luck. She keeps emailing things to herself and smiling. Of course, that _might_ be because Russell has yet to take his eyes off of her. She's not even looking particularly vampish today. Just a black shirt that looks like it hails from the Victorian era. Sure it's the normal spaghetti strapped black shirt, at the base. But over it, there's this sheer fabric with embroidered black dots and that looks Victorian. I mean, the puffy capped sleeves, the not-quite turtle neck neckline, and the hat. The black fedora with the peacock feather definitely gives Sloth a daring look as well as hypnotizing Russell.

I sigh. Winry, for some reason, does not look murderous. Instead she's happily researching, though Wikipedia probably isn't a source Hughes would approve of…

Lunch flies by and before I know it I'm standing outside the door of Speech, just waiting to go in. I sigh. Prolonging the wait isn't going to help anything. I open the door and take a seat next to Sloth.

"Hi," she says and gives me a small smile.

"Hey, Ss-ss-ssllloth," I stutter, dropping my backpack onto the floor next to me.

"How was yuh-yuh-your day?" she asks, trying another painful looking smile.

"Hey, it's okay," I say. "S-ss-sloth, nobody cares if you st-st-stt-ss-ssst-t-stutter. Especially not here. You can relax."

"I-Iya- I uh I'll try," she says, but she still looks uncomfortable.

"Hello class," Izumi says, entering the room, her white coat swishing. A few of the brave people greet her. "I'd like to start today by getting back into the small groups we had yesterday. I will be around to check on your progress."

"So," Sloth says, "what should we be doing?"

"Probably just what we did yesterday," I say with a shrug. "You know, lllllike she'll probably want you t-to do what I did yesterday."

"And, and, and, and, what would that be?" she asks, not meeting my eyes.

"Well, I just wrote down all the s-ss-ss—substitutions I used throughout the day," I say. "Or at llleast the ones I could remember."

"So, should I—Iya, Iyah, I-uh, uh I-uh, just write down when," Sloth bit her lip. "I—Iyah, I-yah, I-uh, I didn't speak normally?"

"I think that—"

"Very good Ed, we'll make a leader out of you yet," Izumi says. Sloth's eyes widen. She's not used to the way Izumi moves without making a sound. "Sloth, I would like you to do the exercise that Ed suggested, but could you also write down the emotions you experienced while stuttering and not stuttering?"

"Sure," Sloth says. She gets out a piece of paper and begins writing things down. Her handwriting is loopy, intricate, and cursive.

"Lovely," Izumi says before sitting down next to me. "How has not avoiding words been working for you?"

"Well," I say, "Maybe a lllittle more actual stst-stuttering than usual, but Winry t-tt-t-told me that I s-s-ss-said the word 's-ss-say' without st-st-stuttering this morning."

"Really? Well that's definitely an improvement," Izumi says. She smiles and looks impressed. "Anyone reacted to this?"

I frown. Izumi has to know that by now all my friends are used to this and don't really care. The most would be my teachers, but I'm pretty sure they already know. I mean, staff meetings and stuff do happen. Izumi looks at Sloth, who's still working on her list, pointedly. I don't get it.

"Uh, no, not really," I say. Izumi rolls her eyes, scribbles something on a scrap of paper and shoves in at me. I read it. _This is mostly for Sloth's benefit, you numbskull! _Oh! Right. "Nobody s-sis-seems to notice when—"

"You said 'to' without stuttering, Edward," Izumi says gently. "Good job."

Wait, what?

My eyes widen. This did not just happen. I didn't even notice. I didn't even think about avoiding that word. I don't want to say it again though. I won't be able to say it again. I know I won't. I don't even want to try.

"So, how did that feel?" Izumi asks.

"Um, I wasn't really paying attention," I say and run my fingers through my hair. I try to remember what it felt, but all that looms in my mind is what it felt like to stumble over stutter. The erratic hissing sound of 's' is all I can think about. "It fuh-ff-f-f-f—" I suck in a breath. I'm going to block. I don't want to say anything more. I just want to shut up.

"F-f-f-f-fff-ff—"

I'm just pushing air through my teeth at this point. I try harder.

"F—f—f—"

I'm blocking. I can't breathe. My lips move but nothing comes out. I feel like I'm going to throw up but my mouth is closed and there's nothing in my stomach. The word is trapped.

"Edward," Izumi says. Her face is calm but unreadable. I focus on it. I don't look at Sloth. She probably feels sorry for me or—no, she understands, but she doesn't. She can just switch her voice and everything's perfect.

"Edward, I want you to close your eyes and open your mouth." She strokes the back of my neck lightly. "Now, breathe out. Don't speak, just breathe out." I let out a gasping breath. "Good, now breathe in, slowly." I take a deep breath. "And let it out." We repeat this until my breathing's calmed down some.

"Alright, open your eyes," Izumi says. My eyes fly open. "Any particular reason for the block? I don't think you've blocked this badly during class in years."

"I didn't want t-t-tt-t-to ss-s-sss-ss-say 't-t-tt-to' again," I say. I bite my lip. It was going to be just like Humanities.

"Ed, we agreed the reason you said 'to' was you weren't paying attention. I wouldn't force you to say it again when you were paying attention," Izumi says calmly. She gives me a searching look. "Why would you expect—who's done that to you recently?" Izumi cocks her head to one side and peers at me. "I thought we'd been through this with your mom."

"No, my mom's f-ff-fine," I say. Mom has actually been pretty good about my stutter recently. "I had Humanities before I s-switched my s-s-schedule around."

"Grand?"

I nod.

"Doesn't he do a lot of presentations?" Izumi asks. "I've never really talked to him."

"Yeah, and he was pretty insensitive about my s-t-st-st-stutter," I say. "He _would_ make me repeat st-st-stuff if I blocked. It was t-t-terrible."

"Ah, well that would explain it," Izumi says. "I'll see what I can do about it. Though I assume that he was that awful to everyone and not just you?"

"Yeah, he's not a popular t-t-teacher."

"But as you were saying before you blocked," Izumi says. I sigh. I should've known I'm not getting off the hook that easily. She'll work through it with me and everything, but after that we go right back to the problem. It's nicer than when people just demand that I fix it or assure me it's nothing. It feels like it helps too.

"It f-f-f-fuh-f-felt nice, not t-to have t-to think about it, but t-to just s-s-s-say it."

"Hmm, we'll do some more work with this starting Monday," Izumi says. She's glancing at another group. "You have homework too. I'd like the both of you to write a page or so over the week, just recording when you stutter and the emotions that come with it. Also, I'd like it if you wrote something about what it's like when you don't stutter. Sloth, this is a little more applicable. You'll be reading each other's work, so keep it g-rated or so. Edward," she looks at me. I blush.

"I guess we'd better start writing," I say and smile at Sloth. She just nods and continues. I sigh. I don't know why this makes her so unhappy. I mean, I _know_ why, it's just I don't understand. She's so timid and almost sad in Speech. I like it. I like being with people who stutter, it's almost normal. But Sloth just looks like a fish out of water.

We walk out of the class together. Envy's waiting for us. He smiles and waves.

"Guess what? The Italian teacher is—Sloth, what's wrong?"

Sloth just slumps against him. She murmurs something and he supports her. I watch as he gently rubs her back.

"It's the play," she chokes out and I realize she's crying. "I—Iya Iya I-uh can't be in it now. The switching voices isn't working and and and and it and it Iya, Iya-ya Iya Iya I uh can't do it. And, and, and, and—"

"Shhh, shhh, shhh," Envy whispers slowly. "It'll work out, something'll turn up."

"No it won't," Sloth says. She wipes her eyes. "It just won't."

"Hey, don't worry," Envy says, smiling at her. "Trust me."

"Unless there's some way to write in a stutter for the lead character or Iya, Iya, Iya, I don't know, make it a musical," Sloth says swishing her hair back. She's regained her composure. "And, and, and we can't switch. Not in the middle of it. So, it'd have to be something specially written."

"We'll see," Envy says with a grin. "Something will turn up."

"Right," Sloth says. "Well I'm off to drama, y-y-yyou two have fun ditching or whatever."

"We're not ditching," Envy says after Sloth leaves. "I mean, we can if you want, but I'm not. Ditching Italian that is. Teacher got sick; no time to find a sub. I'm _not_ ditching."

"It's okay," I say. I reach out to touch Envy, but stop. He freaked out last time. Only now he sees my hand and he stares. I start to drop it but he moves into and grins.

"'Sides, we couldn't go anywhere. Unless Grievous Moron has moved. Stupid GM boxed me in," Envy says, as if I'm not touching his arm. "I hope he ditched last period."

"Oh, you're driving t-today?" I ask, and walk towards Ceramics.

"Yep," Envy says cheerfully. Then: "You won't by any chance know someone who can write a musical arrangement for the play, do you?

"Not, can't help you there—"

"I think I can help," Russell says, appearing suddenly. I jump and Envy looks startled and annoyed. Which is a how normal person looks when presented with Russell.

"S-s-since when do you write musicals?" I ask.

"You're the writer, Ed," Russell says, his tone cavalier. "I have the musical touch. We could probably come up with something. The biggest concern is the rest of the cast. Do they sing?"

"Yeah," Envy says and shrugs. "I suppose most of them do."

"Call me," Russell says, but he mimes typing. Envy shoots him a strange look and turns back to me. Russell heads off to math, but not before making a kissy face at me and mouthing the phrase 'Kiss him.'

As if that's going to happen.

"S-s-so," I ask him as we walk into the classroom. "Are you just going t-to hang out in here or what?"

"Oh, uh," Envy says. He giggles nervously. "I know the teacher, I had him last year. Mr. Paul loves me, thinks I'm a creative genius."

"Right," I say. I can't see Envy creating anything that wouldn't be termed 'needlessly creepy' or 'art by a deranged madman.'

"No, really," Envy says. "I took this class freshman and sophomore year. Just didn't have enough room this year. Mr. Paul adores me."

I shrug. Mr. Paul only adores a select set of students: True artists and those on the water polo team. I am none of those and I doubt that Envy is either.

"Envy!" Mr. Paul exclaims upon seeing him. Envy shoots me a smug look. "Good to see you back. You're not taking ceramics this year?"

Mr. Paul seems genuinely let down, like he actually likes having Envy as a student. I don't think that anyone has told Mr. Paul that more than half the kids in his class are only taking it because it fills up an arts requirement. Or that he's not teaching AP ceramics… which is probably his dream.

"Not enough room in my schedule," Envy says with a shrug. "Italian was canceled today, mind if I hang around?"

I sigh. Mr. Paul is notorious for not letting friends of students spend free periods in his room.

"Sure," Mr. Paul says. "You might be able to help Edward brainstorm ideas for his next project."

"I s-suh-suck at art," I say and sit down. Ling joins us quickly.

"So, today's a sketching day, huh?" Ling asks. He doesn't remark on the fact that Envy is there, sitting next to me. Ling's very circumspect. He doesn't ask questions often. Instead, he just pays attention and eventually presents you with his analysis. It's normally right. And tends to leave the person wondering when exactly they told Ling that specific fact.

"Yeah," I say. I don't know what I want my next project to be. It's the stupid design your own project. You know, the type of thing actual art kids love but everyone else hates because they're not creative like that. Well, maybe Envy _can_ help with that.

"I've already got my idea," Ling says proudly. "So, Mei's birthday is coming up, and you know how she likes Hello Kitty?"

"You can't be s-serious," I say, not looking at Envy. He's currently doodling something on a piece of paper. Maybe he is an artist after all. I peer over but Envy leans away.

"Hey, don't look," he says, curling the paper away from me.

"Aren't you supposed to be helping me brainstorm ideas?" I ask, but back off. Envy's been acting strange the entire day and now, well, he's acting almost normal. I don't want to set him off again.

"Oh, um," he says. He twirls his pencil around his fingers. "I don't know, it's a build-your-own assignment thing right?"

"Yeah," I answer, "pretty much." The paper in front of me is still blank. I have no idea what to do.

"Okay, so, um you could pick something that interests you, like, I don't know," Envy says. "Okay, let's come up with a list of things you like or something and we can work from there or something."

"I—"

"Like Sloth likes drama and theater and that sort of stuff and fashion," Envy says suddenly, "So she'd probably do something like that. Probably with the comedy-tragedy mask, and then she's really into all that Eastern mediation stuff, so she'd probably find a way to work that in. Or she's go with that one Shakespeare quote about the word being a stage." Envy turns the paper over and sketches something quickly. I lean over and watch. Quickly something begins to take shape. It's a stage, but the floor is a quick sketch of the world. "Or she might prefer this," Envy says. He erases the lines on the stage and instead draws a globe around it.

"You really are good," I blurt out. I'm in awe of him. I've never seen anyone draw something that fast. It's not even for a real project and it looks amazing.

"Told you," Envy says, but he smiles faintly. My heart flips over. I lean closer. Russell said—I can't kiss him in Ceramics. I just can't. That be way too awkward and Envy might get the wrong idea or something though I'm not sure how you could take a kiss the wrong way, but if anyone could it's Envy and that's why I don't kiss him.

It's not like I'm scared or anything.

"So, Edo," Envy says, looking at me. "What's your favorite subject?"

"English," I mutter and look away. It's stupid really. I can't speak. I am the most inarticulate person and I love words. I love just writing. But I can't talk. I haven't really tried to write anything. I mean, I think I remember my mom telling me, that before I started to stutter, I'd make up these bizarre stories for Al. I stopped doing that after I stuttered.

"Oh?" Envy says. He sounds interested. "What exactly do you like about English?"

"I—this is really st-st-st—t-t-t-stupid, but—"

"Ed is an excellent writer," Ling interrupts with a smirk. I glare at him. Last time I ever let him read anything I write. "Speaking of which, have you worked on that one story, the one about Anne, at all?"

I flush. I haven't worked on that one at all. I realized after the first twenty pages that I didn't know what was going to happen or why she left or what on earth she was going to do next. She needed to run into someone, but I hadn't gotten around to figuring out whom and then summer had started and there wasn't any time to write…

"Really?" Envy asks and he smiles. "That's, that's really cool."

"It's not very good," I say quickly. I'm blushing. I don't see why that's cool. I shouldn't—me writing is like, it's like, it's like if you're allergic to apples, but you love them so you eat them, even though your throat swells. It's stupid. "I haven't had much time to work on it either."

"Still," Envy says. He rests a hand on my arm. I stare at him. It feels like my whole body is flushing. I'm filled with a sudden heat and my face has turned bright red. "It's cool, and I—" he pauses. "I wouldn't mind reading a few of your stories, if that's okay with you."

"I—ah, sure," I say. I try to think of a story that I'd be willing to let anyone read. The story featuring Anne is probably the best thing I have, even though it's not finished.

"So what stories do you mainly write?" Envy asks. He's looking at me with this really intense look on his face. My stomach turns. He's not _smiling_ but he looks happy.

"They tt-tt-t-tend t-t-to be f-f-f-fantasy more than anything," I mutter. All my favorite books are fantasy: The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, The Merlin Conspiracy, most of Terry Prachett's books, Neil Gaiman, and I'll read anything about Merlin. The Harry Potter series goes without mentioning, of course. "I read a lllllllot of that tt—t-too."

"Okay, so if you had to choose a favorite character, who would that be?" Envy asks. He reaches for another sheet of paper.

"Merlin," I say slowly. I love reading about that time. I've read almost all the books on him, from _The Mists of Avalon_ to _The Once and Future King_. Envy's eyes light up.

"Okay, so what about this," he says and moves the paper so that it's between us. "It'd be like a spell book, or something." He draws the shape of a book. "You could do the spine in segments and then wire them together after firing. Or well, that might be a little too complicated. Maybe you could wire just the front cover or something. But you'd probably want to be able to turn more pages than that. Let's see." Envy pauses for a moment to scratch a few more lines on the paper. "So if the spine wasn't clay at all, but maybe you'd just add something on later or just make it out of wire and cover it with something, but that way you would just do that pages and covers out of clay. You'd put holes in the pages here." Envy circled two spots more inward than I would've chosen. "That way they're far enough away from the edges that it'll be strong. So yeah, what do you think?"

"I think you're brilliant," I say, looking up from the sketch. The thing is, as amazingly complex as this sounds, it's actually pretty simple. It's mostly going to be thin slabs of clay. The really challenge is going to be in the decoration and glazing. But I'm decent at that.

Envy blushes; he actually blushes.

"It's nothing really," he says and looks away.

"So what would this f-ff-fall under, I mean, what s-ss-ss-sort of project is this?" I ask.

"Oh, that's easy," Envy says. "It's an inanimate object of something from a book. Like you're choosing Merlin as the character, well, while this might not be an exact copy of a spell book or whatever, it's something that he could have or that would—it's like taking an object and making it—Actually, I don't know, you're the writer, you come up with something."

I blink at him.

"I don't," I begin. I'm not a writer. I stutter.

"Sure you can," Envy says, he grins suddenly. "I mean, shit, I'm awful at coming up with stuff for my sketches and projects and stuff. You'll be much better than I am."

"If you s-s-ss-say s-s-s—so," I say and shrug. It's a brilliant idea.

"So basically, you just have to come up with a set of requirements and criteria for Mr. Paul, probably ought to include a good description of what it is too and why it's important to you, he likes it when students elaborate on stuff like this," Envy says. "You know?"

"Sure," I say. I've never really paid much attention in this class. It's always been right after Humanities and after that class all I wanted to do was hide away forever. Grand can have that affect on people.

Mr. Paul looks impressed when I show him the project that Envy and I have created. It's too late in the period to actually start with clay, but I can do that tomorrow. I'm surprised when the bell rings at three. Ceramics never goes by this fast and I don't remember being this happy after it, either.

"See ya, Ed!" Ling calls out before leaving.

"So, um, yeah," Envy says. All the confidence that he had during Ceramics is gone. "Do you want to—um, we could wait for Sloth and I guess Wrath, but then your brother…"

"Doesn't she have practice?" I ask Envy.

"Oh, yeah," Envy says and he runs his fingers through his hair nervously. "Yeah, and I guess Wrath, then, and your brother?"

"Al can deal," I say. "He's not counting on a ride home with you."

"Oh," Envy says. He walks towards the parking lot. I follow him closely. "Yeah, and I think Wrath's getting a ride home with Lust or Greed or whatever."

"Or Al might kidnap him again," I suggest. Envy laughs. Our hands brush, accidentally, and he flinches away. I sigh, and bite my lip. We're back to this again. And fuck, I'm going to be in a car with Envy and I think he's driving too. And so what if we're not going to a hotel, we're going to his house, which is almost worse. And I'm spending the night and what if I dream and he—

"So, yeah," Envy says. "Car."

"Oh, um, right," I manage. We're such an awkward pair, the two of us. Neither one knows what to say or do.

"I should unlock it," Envy says. He pulls out his keys and drops them. He scrambles around to pick them up. "Sorry about that, I'm such a klutz." He laughs nervously. He tries to jam a random key in the car. It doesn't fit. He swears softly and jiggles it.

"Envy," I say softly. I think he's got the wrong key but I'm not sure if I should say anything. He'll probably take it the wrong way.

"This doesn't happen a lot, I'm really sorry, I swear this is my car too," Envy babbles on. He looks really upset and frustrated. I'm pretty sure that no one else in the school drives a beat up Honda Civic.

"Envy," I say, firmer. I place a hand on his arm. He looks at me, wide eyed. "Just relax, I'm not going t-to llllllaugh at you." He stops trying to spastically jam the key in the door and sighs. "I think you might have the wrong key."

Envy looks down suddenly. He grins up at me.

"You're right, chibi," he says and unlocks the door. I smile and walk around to the passenger side. Envy leans over and unlocks the door. He tosses his backpack into the backseat. I hesitate.

"You can put your backpack in the back," Envy says airily. "Unless you want to hold on to it or something. There's no airbags, so that might actually be a good idea. Not that I'm going to crash the car or anything, it's just that—"

I put my pack in the back.

"Right then," Envy says as he pulls out of the parking lot. There's a lot of cars and the parking lot is busy. Fortunately, Envy doesn't crash the car into anyone. He's ignoring me. I bite my lip and look out the window. There's no way those two things are related.

There's an awkward silence until Envy remembers that he has his iPod in the car and tries to sync it to play. It's the thing where you have to find a fuzzy radio station and then… I actually have no idea how it works. Envy gets it work when the light turns red instead of ki—I am _not_ going to think about that.

"I ain't diggin' pygmy by Charles Hortree and the death-aydes. Phase one in which Daris gets her oats," a rough voice while someone chuckles. What the? Light guitar strumming picks up. Envy's eyes widen.

"Two of us riding no where," two voices sing out. I smile and tap my fingers to the beat. I know this song. 'Two of Us' by the Beatles. It's a pretty song.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," Envy says looking at me worriedly before swerving to avoid a parked car. He straightens the car. "Turn here?"

"Yeah," I say. Envy turns the car and heads down Maple Avenue. We're almost home.

"It's just that Greed left his iPod in here and I think mine's at home, it's green," Envy blurts out as we cross the bridge. "He, umm, has just a lot of Beatles songs and stuff like that. It's really just embarrassing and—"

"Envy," I say calmly. "You want t-to—"

"Fuck, I missed the turn," Envy says and looks like he's considering banging his head into the steering wheel. "And I am really sorry about—"

"You can t-t-turn on this st-st-street and do a U-t-turn," I say pointing to the left. Envy follows my directions. "And you don't have to apologize about the Beatles. Who doesn't llllike the Beatles?"

"Oh, um," Envy bites his lip. "Here?"

"Yes," I say as Envy turns on to Arcadian Drive. He doesn't look at me. I sigh and murmur along with the music softly:

"Writing letters on our waaahm hom, you and me burning matches, picking latches on our way back home. We're on our way home. We're on our way home, we're on our way home, we're going home."

"You and I have memories longer than the road that stretches about our heads," Envy sings in carefully. He hits the notes firmly and confidently even though they're higher than what I can dream of reaching. He smiles at me and gives me a strange look.

"Two of us wearing rain coats standing so low standing in the sun," Lennon and McCartney sing alone.

"Laurel Court, right?" Envy asks finally. I nod.

Envy parks his car in the drive and walks up to the porch with me. I rummage in my bag for the key, but before I even have a chance to drop it or anything, the door opens on its own and I jump back. Dad stares down at me and raises an eyebrow.

"Dad! What are you—"

"I had lunch at home today, I thought you were—Hello, Envy," Dad says shaking his head slightly. He mutters something about teenagers and opens the door wider. "Why don't you come in?"

"Ah sure," Envy says nervously. He twirls the car keys around his finger. They jingle and flash but he doesn't drop them. He looks at me before glancing at my dad. Dad eyes us both warily.

"I, um, I'm just going t-to go upstairs and grab my st-st-stuff," I say before dashing upstairs. I don't look back, but I don't hear Envy following me. I guess he stayed downstairs. I don't envy him. He gets to make small talk with my dad now, which I guess is bad, for him. But I'd rather not have him watch me pack.

I grab one of the duffle bags that we always take on family trips. It's bright blue with black straps and I shove my clothes into it. A pair of jeans, khaki cargo pants because I want to change out of the leather ones, only not here, because, because they give me an unfair advantage, a shirt for tomorrow, a top to sleep in and boxers because briefs are embarrassing.

Done right?

Err… probably should bring a toothbrush and stuff. I don't know how Envy would react to sharing something like that. Better safe than sorry, and it's normal to bring your own toothbrush. It's not normal to share… usually. Yeah, definitely bringing the toothbrush. That would be weird and the only people who share toothbrushes are married couples or not even that. Besides, that would probably set Envy off again. I hesitate before heading downstairs... Envy is there and he's probably talking to my dad and… I put one foot on stairs. I can't hide up here forever.

But, I swallow hard and head downstairs. Envy's hovering awkwardly in the kitchen while my dad is just looking at him.

"I think the weather is completely fine, Mr. Elric," Envy says shooting me a panicked look. He's twirling the car keys on his finger again.

"S-s-so we'll just go now," I say and give Dad a look. He really doesn't need to intimidate Envy, and why isn't he at work?

"You sure you don't want me to drive—"

"No," I say firmly, grabbing Envy's arm and towing him towards the front door. Dad follows.

"You sure," he says. He never misses a chance to drive anywhere in his stupid car. Especially when Mom's not here. Something about the fact that she finds the gas mileage of that thing to be unreasonable. She keeps bugging him to get something sensible, like a Prius.

"Envy drove over here, Dad," I say opening the door. Envy gives Dad a small wave.

"Goodbye Mr. Elric," he says and I shut the door. Immediately after the door closes he seems to regain some confidence. "Your dad scares me."

There's not really much I can say to that. I settle for awkwardly patting Envy's shoulder. He doesn't flinch away for once. That's good, right?

"You can put you bag in the back," Envy says opening his door. I trail my hand down Envy's back before walking around to the passenger side of the car. He drops his keys and scrambles to pick them up. The door's unlocked and I toss my bag in the back.

The car ride is awkward and silent, save for the low sounds of the Beatles. Envy doesn't say anything. He's gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles have turned white, well whiter than usual.

"S-s-so, English project," I stutter looking over at Envy. He's staring straight ahead and not saying anything. His face is set in a tense expression, with his lips pressed tightly together.

"Hmm?"

It's a monotone reply. I bite my lip. Was he listening?

"The English project," I say, looking at him. "You know, the one we're going t-t-to work on."

His eyes flick towards me and he looks… almost scared. His eyes return to the road.

"Oh, ah, right, that English project."

"Yeah," I say. I twist my hands in my lap. We're almost out of the city limits. The houses are getting more and more spread out and we're approaching the hills where the rich people have their gated communities.

"Oh, um, well, we're going to work on it," Envy says. He keeps looking ahead. "And then you can edit what I have so far, 'cause you're the editor and, um, yeah." He glances at me again. This time he is definitely worried. He turns on to the drive that leads up to the gated community. Only the extremely wealthy lived here. I raise my eyebrows.

"Um yeah," Envy says, as he pulls up to the gate. He rolls the window down and punches in the code. "Sorry about this. But my mom wanted to live here so um…" He's pink and looking away.

"No worries," I say. "It's just a house, right?" Envy gave me the strangest look.

"Just a—yeah, I guess," he says, staring at his hands as the gate opens slowly. He doesn't look up. "Just the neighbors kinda suck."

I smile.

"Yeah, they don't like me that much. Something about them being all old and rich and my hair and for some reason they're not exactly thrilled with the car…"

I laugh. Envy giggles. His eye close shut and his hair swishes around his head and his cheeks are pink and … I blush. He's really attractive and I'm just thinking that I shouldn't be staring when he opens his eyes and _looks _at me. All I can hear is my heartbeat. He fills up my sight, just his face and it's an optical illusion because he's _not _moving closer when someone honks. Envy swerves and slams on the brakes. An angry looked man in an Escalade drives by. He doesn't look happy.

"God fucking damn son of a…" Envy mutters. His face is a brilliant red. "Um, sorry about that I'm normally a good driver but I mean yeah, this is my house." Envy says. He pulls into the driveway quickly and parks outside the garage. "Yeah, it's kinda huge, but a lot of the extended family lives with us and um yeah."

He gets out of the car and I do the same, grabbing my stuff. Envy looks at me with an odd, uncomfortable expression.

"Do y—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. He looks at me before glancing down. "This way," he mutters and walks off.

-fin.-


	13. Chapter 13

AN: Hello all, it's been a long time hasn't it? Unfortunately, I've lost interest in this story and can't continue writing this. It belongs to a really specific time in my life and that time has passed. I wrote this junior year of high school and regularly scavenged details from my life. Only, I'm applying to PhD and masters programs. I really enjoyed writing this and I'm so glad that all of you loved stuttering Ed. You all been very lovely and the best reviewers ever.

There will be one more update after this one. In that update I'll summarize what would have happened between the end of this chapter and the end of the fic as planned. I'm doing this for all my fics too. Just Stuttering is the one that has the largest unfinished chapter.

(y'all get this: development . inputnine archive / antares / site / res_antares_mansions . php Which turns out to, surprisingly, since I just found it and didn't think a ranch type house would ever have a sweeping staircase, work quite well)

**Chapter 13**

Envy's house looks like a rich person's idea of a ranch style house. Easily the size of old money mansions, the house lacks all sense of grace and proportion. Grandiose, bloated, stretched to dimensions far greater than the blueprint suggested, it barely looks like a house, more like a gathering of shapes. It is a study of architectural excess.

And it makes Envy shrink. Shrink as he walks up the cement and brick pathway; shrink as he pauses, feet barely touching the pristine doormat. Shrink as he fumbles with the keys. His whole body shrinks with silent apologies.

I hesitate, hover nervously in the background, just waiting for him to open the door so we can—what? Go up to his room and become even more awkward? Attempt to make small talk in my stupid, staccato speech? This situation isn't going to get better. It's just going to be uncomfortable and I don't know why I agreed to it in the first place.

Envy finally unlocks the door. Quickly, he turns to me like he's going to say something. Mouth open, he looks at me before turning back and opening the door.

"Hopefully, Gluttony's in the kitchen, I don't think that Greed or Lust is home, Mom should be out," Envy babbles. I shrug and follow him. My feet sink into the plush carpet. "We'll just go up to my room and…"

"Should I t-t-t-take my shoes off?" I ask. It seems like the type of house you would do that in. It's huge, meant to over-awe the visitor. The high vaulted ceilings, marble floors, and conspicuous artwork give it the feel of a ancient manor converted into a museum, like Darcy's Pemberly estate.

"Ah," Envy says and glances at my feet. "You're _supposed _to, but I never do so…" He looks anxiously at the sweeping staircase that would look equally at home in the Tsar's Winter Palace. "Let's just go upstairs before we—"

"Envy," a child-like voice croaks. Envy jumps and winces at me. His shrinking apology is back.

"Ah, Gluttony," he says, turning to a short and stout man with a doughy face. Envy looks at me worriedly. I try not to stare, but it's hard. The man barely comes up to Envy's chest, my shoulders. He's fat, almost obese. "I'm kinda, ah, busy at the moment…"

"Not too busy for cake?" the man—Gluttony replies. He looks hopeful. "Never too busy for cake." He grabs Envy by the hand and makes as if to drag him off. I just stand there. I think, I really think, that this Gluttony isn't … completely there in the head. Envy looks at me, an undecipherable look on his face.

"Actually, Gluttony," he says, trying to wriggle out of Gluttony's grasp. "Ed and I—"

Gluttony stops and lets go, looking at me like he didn't even know I was there.

"Ed, Edward?" he says, looking confused for a moment. Then he turns back to the direction he was facing (direction of the kitchen?). "Edward wants cake too."

Envy smirks at me. He leans over to whisper:

"Okay, now we can just—"

"Envy!" a loud booming voice says. Envy's face falls and he looks extremely irritated. "What are you doing home so early?"

"Greed," Envy says through gritted teeth. "Just leave us alone, we're—"

"Oh and you brought a friend with you too," Greed says, an insane grin on his face. My first impression: he has entirely too many teeth.

"Greed…"

"It's Edward," Gluttony chimes in. Envy scowls. I edge closer to him, dragging my bag with me. "Edward's his friend. And we're going to eat cake!"

"Edward," Greed says, smiling at Envy. Then turning to me: "Edward, it's so nice to finally meet you. ("Greed," Envy growls, warningly.) Envy's told us all so much about you." Envy looks positively murderous at that last statement.

"Ah, nice t-t-to meet you t-t-too," I say, hesitantly offering my hand. Greed shakes it energetically.

"Okay, introductions over," Envy snaps, grabbing my arm. "Ed and I are going to go up to my room—TO STUDY!" Envy shouts, glowering at Greed. I don't even want to know what Greed was implying or going to say.

"But no cake?" Gluttony asks, disappointment written on his face.

"No cake!" Envy shouts at Gluttony. Greed's face darkens. Envy drags me to the stairs.

"Everyone!" Greed shouts suddenly. "Envy's brought a friend home! And it's Edward Elric!"

"No cake?" Gluttony says again. He looks like the world has ended, like a puppy got run over in front of him. "You don't want cake? You don't like cake?"

"Fuck you," Envy mutters, glaring at Greed.

"What's going on?"

It's Lust and she doesn't look happy. "Envy are you being—hi Edward," she interrupts herself, smiling at me before looking at Envy. "Are you being mean to Uncle Gluttony?"

"No," Envy mutters looking away. "I—we have to study and he's being stupid."

"Envy's being a big fat meanie," Gluttony says pointing an accusing finger at Envy. I glance at Envy, expecting him to look annoyed, fed up, pissed off, anything other than _stricken_. The look is gone within seconds and he's as pissed off as I expected him to be.

"I'm not fat," Envy spits out. "And that's really rich coming from—"

"_Envy!_" Lust says. "That's not nice."

"Yeah, Envy," Greed says with a smirk, showing most of his fangs—teeth. "Be nice."

"Fatty!" Gluttony shouts. "Envy's a fatty!"

Envy clenches his fists at his sides. "Then I'm definitely not going to eat your stupid cake!"

Lust turns and whispers something to Greed, who slinks off into the hallways. He winks at me as he walks away. I ignore him. This is just too weird.

"But Edward wants a fat Envy!"

Envy turns a violent shade of red and sputters. He doesn't look at me and I don't know what to say at all.

"Shut up!" Envy shouts.

"You're too skinny," Gluttony says, poking Envy's arm. He slaps the hand away.

"Don't touch me."

"Nobody wants a bony bitch," Gluttony mutters turning away. Envy recoils slightly, he still won't meet my eyes. I'm lost.

"Gluttony!" Lust hisses, grabbing his arm. "Who taught you that word?"

Gluttony fidgets and looks away. "No one," he answers in a singsong tone. "Learned it myself."

"Gluttony," Lust says, her eyes narrowed. "I'm not going to ask again."

"No one," he answers and blows a raspberry at her. "Bony bitch, bony bitch, Envy's a bony bitch!"

"Envy, why don't you take Ed up to your room," Lust says, not looking away from Gluttony. "Gluttony needs a time out. Bad day."

"Come on," Envy says in a defeated tone. He slumps up the stairs and I follow, bursting with questions. Who is Gluttony? Uncle? What's wrong with him? Why didn't Envy fight back? Why does he care so much about the bony bitch comment? And… the question I don't want to think about. Why does everyone know my name in the household?

"I'm really sorry about that," Envy says once we're in his room. "That's exactly what I didn't want you to see. Should've gone through the back door, but I guess I'm stupid as well as bony." Envy looks up and attempts a laugh. It comes out bitter.

"It's, ah, it's okay," I say trying to reassure Envy.

"Don't _lie_ to me," Envy says, turning his computer on. "Chibi."

"Don't call me short," I retort, then add: "Kawaii."

I know kawaii is a Japanese insult. Al always says it with such a disgusted look on his face. It has to be an insult. Only thing is, Envy doesn't look insulted. He blushes a little and looks away.

"I didn't know you cared," Envy says. He drops his bag on the floor and slumps against the bed. He looks up at me. "So, what do you want to do? … Oh." I sit down next to him, close enough so that we're almost touching. Envy scoots closer. I smile at him shyly. My heart is in my throat and I want to just lean in and—

"I'm sorry about Gluttony, he's not normally that bad," Envy says, sighing and looking away. "It's just, well, if you're not used to it, it can be kinda a lot at once. And," he looks back at me, "I don't talk about you _that_ much. Gluttony's just being stupid and Greed's an ass."

Envy draws his knees up to his chest. He looks so dejected. Even his hair seems to droop. I take a deep breath and reach out to stroke Envy's arm. My fingers run down his upper arm and over his fishnet covered hands. He stares at me, terrified look on his face.

"What ah—"

"You're not bony," I say and wrap my arm around his shoulder. He leans into me and I can feel his heart race. It's pounding just like mine. I run the fingers of my other hand through his hair.

"Mmm," Envy says, curling into me. I feel his body start to relax. He wraps his arms around me, playing with the end of my braid. His head is on my chest and there's no way he can miss the rapid beat of my stupid heart. If he—if he just looks up I could lean down and, and kiss him. Envy sighs again and crawls over my legs to practically lie across me. I bite my lip, trying not to gasp. "Mmm, keep doing that."

"Wha-what?"

"_That_," Envy says, undoing my braid. He runs his fingers through my hair. "Don't stop." I keep petting his hair, really what else can I do? I sigh too. It's oddly relaxing, just holding him, even though he's sexy. Even though he likes me.

He curls up in my lap. Envy's taller than me, but he manages to fold himself up like origami until he fits perfectly. He buries his nose in my neck and I shiver because it's so much like The Dream. He moves until he's comfortable. We sit there, still for what feels like forever until he wraps his legs around me and pulls back to look at me.

Envy smiles. "Thanks for that." I shrug. I'm not entirely sure what he's referring to at this point. He's looking at me and I _want_ him so badly. "I just—my family can be a lot to handle at times—Ah, most of the time." I nod. If I lean forward… Envy smiles again and leans—_he's leaning forward!_? I'm drawn in to him, like magnets. And he—he's going to—he's going to kiss me!

We bump foreheads and Envy doesn't move closer. His lips are curved in a mysterious smile and he's flushed and his nose is dusted with miniscule freckles, shades darker than his pale skin.

He grins and touches my hair again. His hands cup my face.

"We should do some homework," Envy says, and pulls away from me. He glides into a standing position and offers me a hand. I grab it and he pulls me up against him easily.

"Here," he says and leans away. I'm stuck standing there until he pulls a book off the shelf and hands me a book. "You should probably start reading this. We're already up to Dis at least and you should probably be up to there by Monday, otherwise Kärki will through a fit." Envy says and now he's turning his computer on.

His computer is one of the newer iMacs—I think. The flat ones all look the same to me. There's also a green, boxier Mac in the corner of his desk. It's not a new one and he doesn't turn it on. I open the paperback book and start reading.

The language is strange and it's hard to get used to at first. It doesn't read like a book at all. The paragraphs are in groups of three sentences and it almost feels as if it should rhyme. I look up at Envy and meet his eyes. He's been looking at me.

"You say something?" Envy asks, smiling a little. The corners of my lips turn up in response. I've never seen him this relaxed before.

"No," I say and quickly add. "But isn't this s-s-supposed to rhyme or s-s-something?"

Envy smiles, "Yes actually." Then his eyes widen. "You said—" He leaps up from his seat and darts across the room, prying a leather-bound volume off of a top shelf. "This is the Inferno, in its vernacular."

I just stare at Envy. I don't know how to read Italian.

"Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura ché la diritta via era smarrita Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte che nel pensier rinova la paura!"

It sounds beautiful. The language is rich and almost musical. And the poem really does rhyme.

"The whole poem is like that," Envy says, closing the book. His fingers caress the cover. "It's written in Terza Rima and Dante keeps that up throughout the entire poem."

My eyebrows rise. I'm impressed. Even though this is Italian and it's almost impossible not to rhyme it. Though maybe that was part of the challenge, _not_ rhyming. Envy sets the book down on the desk.

"Dante brought that back from one of her trips to Italy," Envy says quietly and I don't think he's talking about the poet. "She didn't get us all gifts that matched either or that had to do with our sin." His fingers curl around the book. "I was seven. It's why I wanted to learn Italian." I don't know what to say. Not that there is much to say. Nothing really to do except listen.

"So that's that." Envy says, setting the book down on the desk. "I can read more of it later, if you'd like to hear. I mean if you want, you certainly don't have to listen to me talk if you don't want to—"

I cut him off.

"I'd llllllike that," I say, grinning at him. He blushes and goes back to the computer.

"You should probably read some more," Envy mutters, his ears still tinged pink. I read to the translated version of Dante's Inferno.

I set the poem book down. I can't understand much more of this. It barely makes sense as is and now with the last few cantos swimming together in my head… I can't keep everything straight and I have about a million questions to ask Envy. Like why was it a good thing that Dante got back and kicked that man? Who was he even? And why does Dante faint at that one part? Why doesn't the man want him to cross the Styx? What's going on?

Envy looks over at me. He stops typing.

"Have you gotten to Dis yet?" he asks. I shake my head.

"No," I say. "It's confusing and—"

"I'm kidding," Envy interrupts quickly. He twirls a strand of hair around his fingers. He's smiling a little too. "There's no way you could read all the way to Dis before dinner." I smile back at him.

"S-so now what?" I ask, looking up at Envy. He saves whatever he just spent the last hour and a half typing and gracefully slides out of the chair.

"I don't know," he purrs softly. My eyes widen and I blush, I know I blush. "You tell me."

There's the sound of footsteps racing up the stairs but that's nothing compared to the sound of my heart pounding in my chest. I lean forward, hoping I'm not making a terrible mistake when—

"Envy! Are you okay!?" Sloth says loudly as she flings the door open. Envy whips around and his hair brushes across my face. His cheeks are bright red and he doesn't look happy at his twin's interruption. That's a good sign, but damn so if Sloth _hadn't_ shown up I would have—we would be…fucking hell.

"Yes," he growls at her. "I'm fine."

"No you're not," she retorts. Then glancing at me. "Oh hi Ed, I—Iya Iya didn't see yuh-yuh-you there." She breathes deeply and looks at me with a strange expression. I can't tell what she wants from me and I don't know why she's making an effort to stutter around me. Neither can Envy from the puzzled look on his face.

"Hey Ss-s-s-slllloth," I say. She smiles at me.

"So, what have yuh-yuh-you two been working on?" Sloth asks, still hovering in the doorway. Envy doesn't look thrilled at the sudden interrogation.

"Homework," Envy answers in a surly tone. He glares at Sloth. "Why are you back early? Shouldn't you still be at practice?"

Sloth shrugs elegantly. "It was a, a, a short, uh, uh, short practice, the instructor's daughter has the flu and the choreographer is giving blood." She gives Envy a searching look. "Lust is downstairs with Gluttony, cooking. Yuh-yuh-you did remember to tell Lust that Ed's staying for dinner, right?"

Envy crosses his arms. "Yes, she knows he's spending the night, and eating here. Don't you have homework?"

Sloth grins. "Yuh-yuh-yes. We have that history project to work on, right Ed?" She winks at me. Her smile is more frozen this time. I sympathize. She can't just say what she wants to anymore. I glance between her and Envy. I don't get what they're playing at.

"We're working on Dante's Inferno," Envy snaps. "Ed was just about to start editing what I wrote, right Ed?"

I nod quickly and shrug at Sloth. Her grin just widens. "Just making sure," she says. "I'll just leave you two amore ucceelli alone then."

"We're not! Don't even! Non c'è modo che mi piace così, puttana."

Sloth ignores Envy's protests and slams the door on her way out.

"What did she s-s-say?" I ask the second she's gone. I'm curious. They're probably both speaking Italian, I don't really know. I'm not familiar with the sounds of different languages, but I'm pretty sure it's not French.

"Uh," Envy says, blushing a deep red. "Nothing important, just something really stupid." He smiles nervously at me. "Um, sorry about that. She's normally—actually she's always like that but I just didn't mean to talk like you weren't here, you definitely don't have to edit my stuff right away either."

I touch his shoulder lightly.

"It's okay, I am the editor f-f-f—f-ff-f-f—f—"

I can't block! I can't! I haven't stuttered as violently today and especially not after that with Envy. "F-f-f—for the group." There. I finally said it. Though it's not like Envy's going to be paying attention to what I'm saying. He's just going to be worried because it sounds like I'm choking.

He does give me a concerned look and places his hand carefully on my back.

"Yes, but it's just been typed out. It has to age a bit and then _I'll_ edit it the first couple of drafts. Just because you're the editor doesn't mean you have to do everything from the rough draft on," Envy says. He looks like he's about to say more too, though I'm not really sure what he could possibly go on about.

"S-so, if we're not going to do editing now," I say. "What are we going t-to do until dinner?"

Envy smiles mysteriously, his motive unreadable. "Well," he says and he leans in close. "I don't know. What do you want to do, Edward."

I shrug and smirk at him. According to Wrath, he likes me. Wrath and all the evidence so far. "Well, you could explain to me exactly what I just read."

Envy's hopefully look vanishes and he sighs.

"Yeah, it's always confusing the first time you read it."

After Envy goes over the last couple of cantos with me it begins to make slightly more sense. I say slightly because Envy's strong point isn't clear, concise explanations or summaries. That's more of Winry's thing. _She's_ the one who's extremely good at breaking things down into sections and drawing the main points out. I think she thinks in bullet points. Envy however…

"And it's really amazing to think about why he wrote it and all. He was banned from Florence and that must've been like death to him because that was his identity and then his sentence got computed a couple of times. Eventually, it got down to serving public penance but he refused. He was rather proud and then there was one where he would have to just um," Envy pauses and furrows him brow. I really quite honestly have no idea what he is talking about. I nod anyways. "Well, basically, it was pay a fine and apologize and then never ever return to Florence again, I believe the alternative was a death sentence which was computed to house arrest, but he never went back."

"That's interesting," I say, but I really don't see how it relates to the rest of the book, err, poem.

"Yes," Envy says and then he's off again, "So that's why a lot of his enemies appear in hell, like certain popes he dislikes, oh! And anyone who ever did anything bad to Rome, or the people that became Rome. That's why the dude from the Odyssey are punished because they sacked Troy and the Trojans escaped and settled in Italy where they became Rome. And it really ties in with Dante's politics, as he deeply loved Rome and the Church and the Pope, only they turned against him and this whole thing was supposed to expose the rot of the Church. And isn't that interesting?"

I don't really see how this relates to the Fourth Circle of Hell, which is apparently where some strange sort of jousting match between those who squandered their wealth and those who hoarded it is supposed to be happening. However, when I read it, it sounded more like an eternal match of tug-o-war.

"Then they reach the Fourth Circle," Envy says. Finally, he'll explain it and then it'll all make sense. "But it's rather boring since they don't talk to anyone and there's just a bunch of crap about Fortune and all that jazz."

"So, how are they being punished?" I ask. I'm honestly confused. This whole tug-o-war/jousting match doesn't seem to symbolically punish them much. It doesn't represent how their sin affected them spiritually.

"Well, first off, they have to push these huge weights against each other and uh," Envy pauses. He twirls his hair around a long and pale finger. "And then, they're struggling against their opposites. So, someone who hoarded stuff has to push the weight—er the burden of his former material desires against someone who spend lavishly and is also cursed with that weight. Because, um, it's really the same sin, appreciating material stuff too much, only it's expressed in different ways. Sorta. Savvy?"

No. No that does not make sense. So far it's been easy to see why they are punished. Lust is punished with the whirlwind, which represents how it storms the mind and clouds the sense of reason. But this… this is just punishment.

I shrugged. "I guess, s-s-s—so," I stutter. I don't understand this poem.

"Well, the main point is that he had to include this and it gives him a nice way to talk about Fortune," Envy says. "Moving on to the Fifth Circle…"

I start tuning him out. I'm already completely lost and Envy, I'm learning, likes to focus on the small details and the implications of this word and that phrase. He also really seems to enjoy the tangents and the whole scheme of the political context actually seems to make sense to him. I don't get it.

I sigh and try to look attentive. It can't be too much longer until dinner. I'll just ask Winry for her notes tomorrow or something and then look the whole thing up on Spark Notes. Then all of this detailed stuff might make more sense.

I keep staring at Envy anyways. His mouth is constantly moving to shape and form the words. He's very excited about the book and he keeps gesturing with his hands. I lean up against his bed, just watching him. He's talking about how Dante had to learn to toughed up and that the fainting meant that he really had too much sympathy for those suffering in hell and he had to get rid of it. And _that_ was what made the part where he kicks the other man important because that shows that Dante is losing sympathy for the damned. Which, apparently is good.

There's a knock at the door. Envy jumps, hair fanning out as he spins around.

"Who is it?" he demands, slowing rising from his cross-legged position. He does so in one fluid movement, without using his hands to balance.

There's giggles at the door.

"Gluttony, if that's you, you can—"

The giggles stop.

"No," a quite voice says. "I'm not Gluttony."

Envy sighs. "Come in Wrath." The door opens slowly and Wrath darts in.

He sits down before standing up again. He bites his lip and picks up something from Envy's desk. Envy watches him like a hawk.

"Put that down," Envy says. Wrath gives him a startled look and sets the object, a small paper weight, back down on the desk. He looks surprised that it's in his hands to begin with.

"Sorry," Wrath says before sitting down next to Envy. He sighs. He doesn't look at me. Envy doesn't look exactly thrilled to have his younger brother in the room with him.

"Well," Envy says, "What do you want?"

Wrath blinks. He rubs his hand before sighing and looking at me. "Oh, hi Ed." I smile. I have no idea why Wrath is here. In fact, I've had no idea what's going since I got into Envy's house. It's like a mad house. No one in here is sane.

"Wrath, did you want to talk about something or not, because Ed and I have a lot of school work to do," Envy says. He runs his fingers through his hair fast. They tangle at the bottom and he jerks them through. "Well?"

Wrath looks at Envy. He chews his lip. His eye flick to me and then back to Envy. He takes a deep breath. "How can you tell if someone's gay?"

That was not what I expected Wrath to ask. At all. I didn't know what to expect from him at this point or any point really, but honestly, if anyone would be able to tell if someone's gay, wouldn't it _be_ someone who is in fact gay?

Envy gives him a dumbfounded look.

"You seriously," he trails off. He sighs heavily. "Why are you asking me?" Wrath shrugs.

"Who else? Greed? Lust? Sloth?"

"Yes," Envy says. He sees nothing wrong with Wrath bothering his siblings. "You don't have to ask me."

Wrath glances at me and then gives Envy a petulant look. "But you're the only one who has a—"

"Fine!" Envy says cutting Wrath off. He's blushing too, the color rising in his cheeks. "Fine, who do you want to know? I should charge you for this."

Wrath glances at me again and smiles. "Well, I can't tell you his name."

Envy makes a frustrated noise and yanks his hand through his hair again. "Then how do you expect me to help you?"

Wrath stares at Envy as if he's trying to convey something through his eyes alone. Somehow, Envy understands, but I'm clueless. "Ed, I have to talk to Wrath about something, just stay here," Envy says getting up and dragging Wrath out of the room.

**Fin.**

Translation:

Midway upon the journey of our life  
I found myself within a forest dark,  
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.  
Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say  
What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,  
Which in the very thought renews the fear.

amore ucceelli—love birds.

Non c'è modo che mi piace così,_ puttana_—He doesn't like me like that, whore (Though Google translator says "There is no way that I like it, bitch" )

And then I stopped writing. Argh. I don't remember the details of this at all. I don't understand the poem anymore. I'm also completely lost. Do you know how weird and disorientating it is to not know what's going on in the world you created?

Anyways, so this is the last update ever of actual story. I'm not going to write anymore of it. However, there will likely be one last update alert for it. And that is when I condense all of my typed notes on the story into something that makes to people—as opposed to something that currently only makes sense to me.

**Review Form (for old time's sake)**

Is Ed in Chapter 13 in character as compared to the Ed in Chapters 1-12?

How boring was the bit about the poem?


	14. Chapter 14

Stuttering Towards Ectasy: What Was Planned

So, I already wrote about how I tried a few years ago and it was weird because it was something that I had written but I was completely unfamiliar with. Which was sad. Enough about me though, you want to know what I was going to write.

So, we left Ed and Envy together in Envy's room. I think nearly kissing. Then Wrath interrupts. It gets awkward. Homework is finished. Maybe Ed stays for dinner. Envy eats what's on his plate. C'mon, you don't think this has happened before? You don't think Envy knows how to act in order to avoid raising questions? No. Envy knows what he's doing.

Ed goes home because I was running out of plot at that point. Hmm, when is his mom due back? Probably soon. Also I got the dates/times wrong and she left a day early and I'm kinda bummed that no one caught that.

Ed probably tries to angst to people about what it all means. Maybe he talks to Russell who is freaking out about Sloth. Winry probably isn't speaking to him. Maybe she is. Or she's too busy slowly growing to like Ling.

Regardless, Ed has to think about it.

Eventually, they get together. But you can't relax then because I have to keep the tension up somehow. I think I had something where they're dating but aren't sure if they're going to that big dance thing. Oh fuck it, I'm going to go look at my notes. Because what I had planned was really good. Only it's been so long and I can't do the stuff that I really like (which was including the things that were actually happening junior year, I like that, I thought it made it authentic).

So after the kiss, Envy's going to be so fucking awkward and tense. This is a huge crush he's had since forever and it's actually happening. You know how I made you think that you were going to get a sex scene and then I woke Ed up? Yeah, that's been Envy's life for the past however many years. Also, he has his neurotic-ness and he's been alone with it for um well probably most of his life. So Envy has no idea how to have a boyfriend. He's not used to someone else wanting to get into his head. He's not really used to having people not his family close to him.

Don't think Ed's getting off scot-free on this either. He has no idea what he's doing. Neither does Envy. There's going to be some awkwardness where Envy's trying so fucking hard to pretend to know everything, and then Ed snappily (only not, cause stutter, but Envy waits for him) says something like "Oh come on, llllllike you know either." And Envy just sorta cracks a little because he's only a little more experienced than Ed and he's been leveraging the fuck out of that. Like that's all he thinks he has to offer, experience, and now that Ed's found him out. Well, what if he leaves?

Depending on how I'm doing for plot here, it either takes awhile to resolve or is resolved quickly. Like it simmers and then turns into a fight or escalates quickly. Culminates with Envy yelling "I don't know! I don't know what to do! There! Are you happy? I have no idea what I'm doing so you might as well leave me and get it over with!" Envy doesn't even look at Ed. He stands there. He doesn't seem to shake, but his hair trembles and gives him away. "What are you still doing here? Go!" he points to the door.

"Why would you think that?" Ed shouts, stepping into Envy's space. "You think I'd walk away because of that?"

Envy looks up. "What?"

"You really think I'd lllllleave you over that?"

Envy stands there with a dumb look on his face.

"I lllllllike you," Ed says. "I don't care if you don't know what t-to do. We can learn together."

Weekend: Trisha's back. Ed-mom interaction there. Sat: (Trisha meets the Peccatos when she picks Ed up) group meeting minus Winry. Group work. Im conversations. Ed accidentally mentions that Sloth is in his Speech class. Russell already knew and doesn't care, which begs the question, how did he find out?

Ed goes shopping with Mom on Sunday, says he needs some long-sleeve shirts.

Sidebar:

Al sees Wrath in the halls after math and runs after him. "Hey," Al pants. "You're in my English class." He says when Wrath turns around. Wrath smiles. He's not recognized very often. "I saw your picture in photography club yesterday." Wrath's flattered. He's a bit unnerved when Al keeps touching him. Scared that it's a prank cause of rumor of Wrath's being gay (the reason he quit cheerleading). Wrath relaxes once he sees that it's because Al has no concept of personal space. Wrath gets this when Al sits on Wrath's lap because there aren't any chairs. Al's happy to finally "connect" with someone in that class.

Wrath ends up spending Thursday night at Al's. sees Ed naked in the morning. Tells Envy about it.

Ed and Envy get together before the dance. Envy's just bringing up the dance, but Ed thinks that he's asking (or trying to ask Ed) to the dance and Ed says 'yes' (Which confuses Envy) and then kisses him (which makes him a very happy).

Edward has an argument with his mom over Envy and Twirps.

She states that 'even though Envy looks like a girl, that doesn't mean it's okay to lead him on. Just because his sexual preferences are different from yours doesn't mean—'

'MOM!'

'Edward Ulysess Elric, will you please take this seriously? It is very difficult to be gay and out during high school and differences in sexual preference—'

'St-stop saying s-s-s-sexual!'

'Edward, just because you and Envy have different gender preferences—'

'We don't.'

'well if you're both straight, just ask girls. They aren't that scary, Sloth she's nice.'

'NO! Not s-s-ss-slll-Sloth. She's going with Russell. And before you can ask, Winry's going with Lllllling! And Envy and I don't have different s-ss-s-sexual preferences. As in, we both llllike guys! We're both gay, unless he's bi and didn't t-t-tell me.' '

'Oh, well that clears a lot of things. Here, I picked these up at the gender neutral convention Aunt Georgina—'

'You mean _Uncle_ _George?'_

'Oh, yeah. Well, you have a new aunt. She just got surgically reassigned last month. Hasn't told anyone the poor dear. Anyways, I ran into her completely by accident. But she gave me these flyers. She was at a stand.'

'You're kidding, right.'

'Just be glad she was working at the Safe Sex for Everyone stand. She told me she'd volunteered to help with the condom demonstrations'

'MOM!, bye, I'm going to my room.'

Once Ed gets to his room, discovers message from Envy: So what's this about asking me to Twirps?

Ed: you already asked me.

Envy: Um. I think I'd kind of remember that.

Ed: remember, it was [time place] and we were [verb].

Envy: …

Ed: I kissed you.

Envy: first time or the one where Izumi walked in?

Ed: first time. You were going to ask me to Twirps and I decided to take Russell's stupid [Russell made Ed listen to Kiss the Girl and has been humming it for the past week] advice and kiss you.

Envy: It was really good advice.

Ed: so you weren't asking me to Twirps.

Envy: like I'd ever be brave enough to do that

Ed: shit, cause I kind of just [explain]

Envy: Oh, lol. It's okay, I mean, I'd be thrilled to go with you, I'd just been wondering when you were going to ask me.

Ed: well, want to go to Twirps with me?

Envy: Fuck yes!

Plot:

So Ed will feel crappy for about a week or two. Then there will be the dance, which he's going to with Envy. The dance will be fine-ish. He'll get much worse at the Peccatos after party. Pride or Dante will be a doctor or something. Ed's parents will get called. And they'll go to the emergency room. Where Ed's mom is going to be all cool, cause of the stuttering and rude ER person. Then it's going to end in the morning with the sun coming through the window and Ed waking up to Envy.

Like I could end it like that. Nah, there's no Envy. Mom says something about Envy being awfully worried about him.

How do you set the laser printer to 'stun'?

Is that your beard or are you eating a muskrat?

drueling—a fight to see who can out-drool the other

Nashua New Hampshire = town

And that is what I have. So in the end we have Trisha being redeemed, an exploration of Envy's neurotic-ness, and Ed gets moderately better at the whole stuttering thing. Sloth sideplot is that she learns to accept that she stutters and stops trying to fake it all the time. Ling and Winry are happy together. Sloth and Russell have a rocky but pretty cool relationship.


End file.
